


Avatar Rising: A Great Burning

by leonidaslion



Series: Angelwings [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Dark, F/M, Hurt Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months to the end of the world...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is brief major character death here, but 'tis not permanent. :)

After some unknown length of time, Dean opened his eyes to a blinding wash of white and knew instantly that he was in the room from his dreams. Knew he was lying in a bed on his back. That calm sense of power still filled him with the faith that everything was going to be fine. But when he thought of what had just happened, pain and self-loathing lashed across the surface of the calm, forming choppy waves.

Sam had shot him. Sam had tried to kill him.

And now Dean knew that he was exactly where he belonged: in Hell.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Dean’s heart stuttered and he dropped his gaze from the ceiling to the man standing next to the bed. Sam was grinning down at him, except that it wasn’t really Sam, was it? Those sick yellow eyes always gave the son of a bitch away.

“Don’t,” Dean groaned, slipping his own eyes shut.

“Don’t what, Dean?” Sam’s voice. Sam’s hand on his forehead as though he was concerned Dean might have a fever. Might be delusional.

God, he wished it was that easy.

“Be someone else. Anyone, just—not him.”

The demon leaned closer and Sam’s hair brushed across Dean’s face. _Don’t look don’t look._

“Sorry, Dean. Playtime’s over.”

“What the h-he—what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just lie back and relax.”

Dean tried to shift away and wasn’t surprised to find that he couldn’t go anywhere. Chained spread-eagled to a bed in this freaky white room. He let out a short laugh. “Yeah right, relax,” he muttered.

The demon hummed to itself and traced its hand across Dean’s chest, and where the fuck had his clothes gone? Naked again. Naked and chained down, which meant that the torture was going to start any minute now. Six months of it. _You can do this, Winchester,_ he told himself, and felt the power roll up to soothe away the panic that was trying to take hold of him.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Dean said. He made himself open his eyes again. He wasn’t giving this bastard the satisfaction of knowing it could still get to him.

“Patience is a virtue, Dean,” the demon sing-songed. “I’m savoring the moment.”

Dean snorted. “Enjoy it while it lasts, cause it’s all you’re getting.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” It ran one hand through his hair fondly. “You want to hear a secret?” It bent down, breath curling into his ear. “I won.”

Dean shook as the words penetrated his calm. “Bullsh—bologna.”

“Would I lie to you?” it asked innocently, straightening.

“Yes.”

The demon flashed Sam’s blinding grin and Dean’s stomach turned. “Aw, you’ve got me there.” It dragged a proprietary hand down his side. Curled its fingers into his hip. “But I’m not lying now, Dean. I’ve got you right where I want you. And I really have to thank you for being so cooperative.”

Dean shook his head, trying to ignore the sensation of the demon’s fingers hooking underneath his hipbone, painfully deep. “You can’t make me do anything. Not now.”

“Not with all that ‘power of God’ you’ve got rolling around in there, you mean?” Its head darted down to nuzzle at his neck. “Mmm … I can practically taste Him.”

“You can’t,” Dean repeated, hating the way his voice was too high and thready. Hating the way that his serenity was disintegrating in shreds around him.

“You’re right, I can’t touch His power—can’t use it. But guess what happens to divine energy when it comes in contact with Hell. It’s kinda like electrical charges: they cancel each other out and all that strength—all that power of yours—goes neutral. And that?” Its thumb traced along the line of Dean’s hipbone. “That I _can_ touch.”

“No.”

The demon chuckled gleefully to itself. “You swore to submit to whatever I wanted, Dean,” it reminded him. “And right now, what I want is for you to just lie back and let me in.”

Its grip tightened on his hip and Dean could feel … something … start to flow into him from the damned thing’s fingers. Cold. A cold so intense it burned. Dean’s hips jerked and the demon pressed him down more firmly.

“Just think, Dean,” it purred at him. “All this power I’m offering added to what you already have. You’ll be unstoppable. You’ll crush their armies to dust.”

Dean’s heart rate sped and he shook his head. He wanted to deny it, wanted to refuse, and couldn’t remember how to speak. The cold was seeping through his body, setting his nerve endings on fire.

“Now I should warn you, this may sting a little.”

The demon leaned forward, pressing its lips against his chest—over his heart—in a gentle kiss, and as power surged into him, Dean threw back his head and screamed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam was quiet on the ride home from the hospital. His entire face hurt, both the deep-seated ache of his broken nose and the sharper burn from the corrective surgery on his cheekbone. His wrist wasn’t feeling so hot either: he’d sprained it when he fell, and never even noticed it until he was sitting in the emergency room and the nurse asked if he wanted to put some ice on the swelling there. He still didn’t really feel any of it.

Sam had slipped into shock on the way to the hospital. Had been deep under the comforting numbness through the initial checkup. Had stared into space while Ann fielded most of the questions. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to welcome the brief oblivion offered by the general anesthesia he’d needed for the surgery. Had woken up still in a fog and checked himself out of the hospital with Dean’s eyes, wide and hurt, in his mind.

Ann hadn’t even bothered trying to talk with him on the way back, but as she pulled the Mercedes into the garage, she finally reached over. Touched his shoulder lightly. “We’re here, Sam.”

He nodded and climbed out of the car. Made his way up to the house and went straight to the second floor library. Sat with his back against the wall and stared at the spot where he’d last seen his brother. Sam sensed Ann follow him in but he didn’t acknowledge her presence when she sat down next to him.

After a few minutes, she said, “We’ll get him back.”

Sam felt the numbness inside him start to tear as he shook his head. “You don’t understand. You didn’t see.”

Ann laid a hand on his arm. “Then tell me. Tell me what you know so we can figure out a way to—”

“There isn’t a way!” Sam insisted. “He’s gone! I can’t—I can’t feel him anymore. That fucking bastard took him somewhere I can’t go, and if I—if Dean—” He ran out of words and just shook his head, pulling his knees to his chest. “You didn’t see,” he repeated.

Ann’s arm came around his shoulders and she pulled him toward her. He resisted, shaking his head, so she slid closer to him instead. “We’ll find him,” she whispered. “You know it’s not going to kill hi—”

Sam let out a braying laugh. “God, I wish it would,” he choked, and felt sickened that he’d said it. That he had meant it. He waited for Ann to recoil, but she only held him tighter.

“Sam, what is it?” she asked.

“It—God, Ann, it’s going to use him to kill everyone. It showed me—some kind of vision—and everything was—was gone, and Dean was some kind of fucking boogyman, he—I saw him murder hundreds of people without flinching. He burned them. He was burning angels, too—killing them.”

“Angels can’t die,” Ann said firmly.

“These did. I saw it, Ann. I saw _him_.”

“Sam, I may not have been all that coherent when that angel was here, but I heard enough to know that it made Dean an avatar. An _avatar_ , Sam. It’s actually physically impossible for him to kill anything that isn’t evil—isn’t a demon. He can’t.”

God, Sam wished she was right, but he’d seen Dean. Seen him standing with fire in his eyes and Hell spreading out from his back in the shape of black, smoking wings. Thinking of it now, he could almost smell it: that sickly-sweet scent of flesh burning.

“He was … different … when I saw him,” he said. His voice was harsh, full of the things he couldn’t even begin to explain to Ann. How did you describe that desperate, trapped feeling? How did you explain the look in the priest’s eyes: glassy, brilliant with panic and his own death?

“Sam, have you stopped to consider that the demon might have been lying to you?”

Sam gave his head a short shake. “No. It was real. I—I could tell. It’s going to happen next year. Everything’s just going to—Dean will—” Sam slammed his hands down against the floor in a sudden rush of rage and barely felt the shudder of pain that ran through his sprained wrist. “I’m so fucking stupid!” he shouted.

“He can’t, Sam, I promise. There’s not a lot written on avatars, but everything agrees on that count. He can’t hurt anything that isn’t a demon. If he even tried, it would destroy him.”

Sam took a shuddery breath and tried to focus his thoughts enough to explain coherently. Tried to ignore the sickening anger thrumming through him. “He wasn’t an avatar when I saw him, Ann.”

“That’s impossible. It’s not something you can just undo. You’re an avatar until you die: there’s no going back.”

Stupid bitch. Why the hell wasn’t she listening to him? “They changed him—they’re going to change him. He was—his eyes were gold. Solid gold. And he had wings again.” He couldn’t bring himself to describe what he’d seen any more than that, but Ann’s eyes widened— _that’s right, you numb cunt, get with the fucking program_ —and she pursed her lips.

“I don’t know how they could, but what you’re describing to me is—I don’t know, Heaven in negative. You’re describing what I would suppose a corrupted angel would look like, if it didn’t Fall.”

Sam swallowed the string of curses he wanted to shout at her and asked instead, “Can they do that? Corrupt him?”

Ann frowned, maybe at the dangerous undercurrent in Sam’s voice. “My first instinct is to say no. Cherubim, Seraphim, Ophanim, Archangels, Angels—they’re all protected from that kind of thing by their own divine power. An avatar is stronger than any of the angelic species. Theoretically, it should be just as well protected, if not better.”

“‘Theoretically’,” Sam sneered.

Ann’s face went stiff with caution and then she glanced away. Pulled back from Sam and started to stand up. “I’ll need to do some more resea—”

He grabbed her wrist, hard, and felt bones grind in his grip. His own wrist didn’t hurt at all any more. “What is it?” he demanded.

Ann’s mouth dropped open a little and Sam felt a gratified little surge at the growing fear in her eyes. She tried to pull her hand free. “Not now, Sam. Let me just—”

“I don’t think so,” Sam growled, climbing to his feet. “You know something, don’t you?”

“Sam, you’re hurting me, ple—”

Sam shoved her so that she stumbled back against the wall. Before she had recovered her footing, he was on her again, catching her wrists in his hand and jerking them up over her head. Pressing her against the wood paneling with his body. He could feel her pulse running rabbit-fast against his palm. Her chest shuddering against his as she struggled to calm her breathing.

It felt right. Felt _good_.

“Please, Sam, this isn’t you. Try to—”

Sam used his free hand to shut her up, wrapping it around her throat and squeezing until her voice stopped. The way her face went flushed and frantic was nice, but he suspected that if he kept up that kind of pressure any longer she’d pass out, and that wouldn’t be any fun at all.

He eased up a little, let the breath flood back into Ann while he dug his fingers up underneath her jaw, dragging a pained moan from her. Sam’s heartbeat picked up. Yeah. Yeah, more of that. He pushed harder, tightened his grip on her hands and ducked his head to nuzzle at her neck. Fuck, he could practically _smell_ the fear coming off of her now.

His lips parted and he licked along her jaw, tasting sweat. Tasting fear. She made another of those hitched, panicky moans. It was wonderful, but it wasn’t enough. He could drag some real sweet sounds from her if he had a knife. Maybe some lemon juice for the pretty, pretty cuts, or whisky. Yeah, that’d be better. As he imagined drinking that cocktail off Ann’s skin—whiskey, blood and sweat, fucking aphrodisiac—he let out a little moan of his own.

Ann went stiff against him. “God, Sam, please don’t do this. This isn’t you, it—”

“What’s wrong, Ann?” he purred. “Aren’t you having fun? I am.” He rolled his hips into her for emphasis and felt moisture slip down on his fingers where he was holding her head steady. Bitch was crying. Fuck, that was hot.

“Sorry, Sam,” Ann breathed.

“Not yet,” he chuckled. “But you will be.”

“No, I meant sorry for this.” And then she brought her knee up in between his legs and _shitfuck_ that hurt! Sam dropped her and backed away, curling down and trying to think through the sudden agony in his groin. He looked up at her, filled with a maddening mix of hate, rage and lust, and blinked at her tear-covered face. At the red imprint of his hands across her jaw, her throat. Her wrists.

Guilt flooded through him, drowning out the darker, cruel impulses. “God, Ann, I’m sorry,” he groaned, sinking to his knees. “I don’t know what—”

“I do.” Breathing heavily, Ann edged toward the door. “I’m going to have to lock you in here for a while, Sam.”

“Why—” He swallowed as the rage threatened to reassert itself. Concentrated on pushing it down. “Never mind. Yeah, do it. Do it now. And don’t—don’t run.” He didn’t know if he could control himself if he saw her running from him. The very idea of it excited him even through the pain.

Ann reached the door and stepped through, her eyes locked on Sam. “Just try to hold on. I think I can fix this.”

“Don’t talk, just go,” Sam snarled, and surged to his feet before he could stop himself. Ann gave a startled, frightened little gasp. Sam’s control shattered at that sound and he charged, slammed into the door just as it shut.

“You fucking bitch!” he shouted, trying to wrench it back open and finding it locked against him. “Get your ass back here!” But there was only the sound of Ann fleeing down the hallway.

Sam paced away from the door and squatted down to wait. She had to come back eventually, and when she did he’d be ready for her. Then they could finish what they’d started. He smiled slowly as he rocked back on his heels. This was gonna be fun.


	2. Chapter 2

When Ann finally returned three hours later, Sam was less than pleased. The fucking room was stifling him, and he had a nasty burn on his hand where it had brushed against the chalk-lines on the floor. Stupid angelic script.

The sight of the hallway beyond his prison when Ann opened the door was like a pained cry and a warm gush of blood all wrapped up into one beautiful package. It took him a few seconds to realize that she had a gun in her hand, just like the two men flanking her. All three of the guns were pointed at him.

Sam considered rushing them anyway and then decided to wait. He could be patient. Get them to lower their guard enough for him to get one of the guns away from them. Then he could kill the men and take Ann somewhere else. Have a little fun.

“How are you feeling, Sam?” Ann asked. Her voice was a little huskier than normal, which probably had something to do with the dark bruises across her throat and jaw in the shape of his fingers. Sweet.

Sam grinned, spreading his arms wide. “Never better.” He took a step forward and Ann thumbed the safety off of her gun.

“Don’t move.” She tossed something across the room at his feet. Some kind of necklace. A disc with an engraving of two people, their limbs so closely entwined that, at first glance, they looked like they were sharing a single body. “Put it on.”

Sam laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“Put it on or I’ll shoot you.”

Sam’s lips twitched up into a confident smirk. “You’re not going to kill me,” he pointed out as he edged forward.

“No, I’m not,” Ann answered calmly. Then she pulled the trigger and instead of the loud explosion Sam had expected, there was only a quiet popping sound. When he looked down at his chest, there was a red, feathered tuft sticking out of his shirt.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, grabbing the tuft and yanking it out. There was a tiny pull of pain in his chest and then he was holding a dart between two fingers. Was blinking at it with eyes that were suddenly having a hard time focusing.

Staggering, he glared at the two Anns that were coming toward him. “Fucking bitch,” he mumbled. “Fucking cunt.” He slid down onto his side on the floor, and distantly felt the stinging burn of the angelic script on his face and arms.

Ann yanked him up, pulling him against her chest. Sam tried to turn his head—head butt her, bite through the soft skin of her neck, _something_ —and couldn’t manage to do much more than cling to consciousness.

Then Ann was dropping the necklace over his head and the flood of _fuckyou/hate/anger/bitch/kill_ slowed to trickle. He could think again, could feel his own emotions again, and it was a guilty, dreadful horror that chased him down into sleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam was lying in a bed when he woke up again. Same room he always stayed in when he came to Ann’s: the guest bedroom he had begun to think of as ‘his’. Sam’s wrist was screaming bloody murder, and he hoped he hadn’t torn anything. Dropping his eyes to one side, he found Ann was sitting on the bed next to him, her legs crossed and her head in her hands.

Sam started to sit up and then froze as the muzzle of a gun pressed against his forehead. Following the line of polished steel upward, he found himself looking into Fredericks’ impassive face.

“Mr. Winchester?” Fredericks said calmly.

Sam swallowed. “Yeah, I’m—I’m me. I—” He shifted his eyes to Ann without moving. “God, Ann, are you okay? I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s all right, Fredericks,” Ann announced, lifting her head. Her eyes shone with relief. “It worked. You can go now.”

“I’ll wait outside the door just in case, ma’am,” Fredericks answered, tucking the gun back into his shoulder holster. “No offense, sir.”

“None taken.” Sam edged up the bed so that his back was pressed against the headboard. He rubbed at the sore, red welts along his arm where he’d fallen against the angelic script. Reached up and found similar marks along the right side of his face.

Sam waited for Fredericks to leave and then leaned over and brushed the bruises on Ann’s neck with his fingertips. “I’m so sorry, Ann. Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” she answered, flushing a little and pushing his hand away. “How are _you_ feeling?”

“I—better. I can still feel it, but it’s distant. I can block it out.” Sam frowned. “What the hell was that?”

“You said that you’re connected with that demon somehow?” Ann asked, brushing her hair back behind her ears.

“Yeah. You think that’s responsible?”

Ann nodded, dropping her eyes from his. Her hand traced nervous circles on the bedspread.

“What else?” Sam demanded.

“Maybe we should talk about this later.”

“Ann, please.”

She glanced up at the desperation in his voice and then grimaced. “Sam, you don’t want to kn—”

“It’s Dean, isn’t it?” Sam said suddenly. He’d just pinpointed where those feelings were coming from, and it was the same place that Dean had been. That place that had been empty since the demon took his brother. “Damn it, Ann, tell me!”

Ann let her breath out in a sigh. “You remember when I told you that Dean was protected from corruption by the divine power he holds? Well, I was overlooking a chink in his armor. Something that bypasses his normal defenses and feeds directly into his soul.”

“The link,” Sam said dully. “That damned demon is using the link to change him, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” Ann admitted. “I think it’s using the link to funnel demonic power into Dean. You got caught up in the backwash. That, um, amulet—” She pointed at the necklace Sam was now wearing around his neck. “—I was going to give it to Dean, but we got distracted when he set off the wards around the vault. It’s supposed to help control the link. I thought it might cut off the demon’s access completely, but if you can still feel it, then …” She gave her head a little shake.

“Yeah.” Sam dropped his gaze to his hands and just sat there for a moment, feeling his body around him. Feeling the weight of his muscles and the soft bed beneath him and the hard wood at his back: the ache in his nose and the sharper burn of his cheek and wrist. The he looked up again, keeping his face carefully still, and said, “You have to kill me.”

Ann jerked as if he’d shot her. “Like hell I do!”

“If you won’t then I’ll do it myself.” Sam slid off of the bed, holding his injured wrist awkwardly, and started for the door.

Ann scrambled after him, grabbing his arm. “Don’t be an idiot!” she snapped. “What’s that supposed to accomplish, Sam? Huh?”

He spun on her, grabbing her shoulder with his good hand, but she didn’t loosen her grip. Didn’t flinch like he half-expected her to, after what he’d just done to her. Only stared at him with her eyes narrowed.

“I can’t let them do that to him, Ann. He’ll destroy everything. If I’m dead, then that yellow-eyed son of a bitch won’t be able to use the link anymore. It’ll have to leave Dean alone.”

“And what if it doesn’t work? What if you dying isn’t enough to sever the link?”

“It will be,” Sam said grimly, remembering Corey Trankard’s words. He pried her fingers off of his arm.

“Damn it, Sam! There has to be something else, some other way to—”

“There isn’t.” He strode to the door with Ann right behind him. Pulled it open and looked out into the hallway at Fredericks. “I need to borrow your gun,” he said.

“Don’t give it to him!” Ann called over Sam’s shoulder.

Fredericks started to shake his head and Sam punched him. Ignored the sick flare of pain in his wrist while he dodged the return punch and drove his opposite fist into Fredericks’ stomach, doubling him over. Sam caught the man by the shoulder with his uninjured hand and reached inside his jacket with the other to grab the gun. Pushed the man away while somehow managing to maintain a good hold on the gun and it came smoothly out of its holster.

Sam pressed the muzzle up to his temple, breathing shallowly through the fire in his wrist and the enormity of what he was about to do.

Ann held her hands out, pleading. Not quite daring to struggle with him over the gun in case it accidentally went off. “Sam! Sam, don’t!”

“Thanks for everything, Ann,” Sam told her, and flipped the safety off.

Inside of him, the anger-filled, Dean-shaped hole went suddenly and completely dead. Sam’s hand twitched at the sensation and he almost blew his brains all over Ann’s wall anyway. But it wasn’t quite enough pressure, and after a moment of standing there frozen, he lowered the gun and let Ann take it away from him.

His knees gave out and he clumsily sank down onto the floor, cradling his throbbing wrist against his stomach. He was too late. Again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean didn’t know how long it went on. Longer than Seraphiel’s kiss, that was for sure, but he couldn’t even begin to guess how much of his six months that endless agony made up. He was whimpering, taking little hitched breaths, when the demon finally lifted its head and released him. His body was soaked in sweat and his muscles twitched violently.

Worse, he could feel two separate pools of power inside of him, straining towards one another as though magnetized but not quite touching. Not yet. There was some kind of wall holding them apart. Crap. Not good not good.

The demon stroked his damp hair. “You’re doing great so far, Dean. In fact, I think you deserve a reward for good behavior, don’t you?” Its eyes flared and there was someone else in the room: someone standing at the foot of the bed. Dean groaned and didn’t bother trying to get his eyes to focus. Azrael, probably, or something almost as horrible.

“Dean? Dean! You son of a bitch, we had a deal!”

Despite the fact that the voice was torn almost beyond recognition—was weary and hurt and mangled—and despite the fact that it had been years since Dean had last heard it, he knew instantly whom the demon had summoned to his side.

And now he was crying for a different reason, trying to pull free of the shackles that held him exposed. Trying to hide his nakedness, hide what he’d become.

“Now, John, he’s not dead. In fact, I think I can promise he’ll live a looooong time.”

The demon’s words wrenched another sob from his throat, and Dean found himself fumbling, trying to find that power and turn it inwards. He could burn himself to ash, he could end it all right now if he only— But there was something smooth and unyielding between him and all of that untapped energy.

“I don’t think so, Dean,” the demon muttered. “That would be going back on our little agreement, wouldn’t it?”

Dean whimpered as he fought to push through that slick shell and he heard his father make an angry, hurt noise.

“Don’t! Let him go, you lying fuck!”

“Easy, John,” the demon said, voice heavy with warning. “You don’t want to make it worse on him, do you?”

“ _Damn_ you.”

“There’s a boy.” The demon returned its attention to Dean, leaning in close so that Dean could see every twisted yellow whirl in the bastard’s eyes. “Now, Dean, I’m gonna let down that wall between His power and mine. Shouldn’t take more than a few months for everything to settle down in here.” It tapped Dean’s chest with one hand. “Daddy’ll watch out for you: keep you fed and watered.”

No. He couldn’t be … this … in front of Dad. Dean moaned, shaking his head.

“And just a friendly warning, Dean: this is gonna really fucking hurt.” It dropped the wall separating the opposing pools of power and Dean’s body arched up off the bed. He thought he might be screaming and couldn’t tell. Couldn’t tell because this went beyond agony. This felt like dying with every beat of his heart. Felt like acid running through his veins instead of blood. Acid eating through his insides and spilling him out on the table.

Dean prayed for oblivion, and as usual, God wasn’t listening.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam spent most of the following week in the room where he’d lost his brother. Where he’d lost the world. He sat with his back against the wall and his splinted wrist—not broken, just horribly abused—in his lap and stared at the place he’d last seen Dean. Prodded that empty, hollow spot inside himself morosely and turned over the demon’s offer in his head.

Maybe he should give in. At least then he’d be with Dean. And really, what were his alternatives? Be killed with everyone else when the demons came, or end up a slave in Hell. Maybe Dean’s slave, depending on how much of his brother was left and how ironic the yellow-eyed demon was feeling when passing out battle spoils.

It was a Monday when Ann came into the room and stood in front of him, arms crossed and lips pursed. Sam shifted a little under her gaze and kept his own eyes studiously away from her face. He expected her to plead with him, to try and offer him comfort or solace, and he wasn’t having any of it.

But apparently, Ann had decided it was time for another tactic because she looked down at him for a few minutes and then snapped, “You’re pathetic.”

It startled Sam into bringing his head up. “What?” he said.

“Pathetic,” Ann repeated. “If Dean were here, you think he’d pat you on the shoulder and tell you to keep up the good work?”

Sam snorted bitterly. “That’s the point, isn’t it? He’s not here. And when he gets back, he’ll—”

“Destroy the world. Yeah, I’ve heard that one before, Sam. Try something new.”

Sam felt himself getting angry in spite of his misery. “If you’d seen, you wouldn’t be so fucking blasé.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’d get off my ass and try to do something about it. In case you haven’t noticed, Sam, the world’s still here. We can still do something to stop what’s coming.”

“You can’t stop him,” Sam muttered, remembering Dean’s wicked grin as he sent the flames rolling into the crowd. Remembering that flicker of hungry desire in his brother’s face as he watched those people cower away from him.

“We can try.” Ann crouched in front of Sam and regarded him angrily. “Goddamn it, Sam, would you snap out of it long enough to look at yourself? You haven’t eaten in days, you’ve barely slept, and from the look of you, it’s been over a week since you last bothered to shower.”

Sam cut his eyes down and away. “What’s the point?”

Ann slapped him. “Fuck you, Sam,” she breathed, color high in her cheeks. She pushed to her feet and pulled a gun out of her holster. Dropped it carelessly in his lap. “You want to die, then go ahead. But get it over with, will you? I can’t just sit here and watch you do this to yourself anymore. I won’t.”

She turned without waiting for him to respond and walked to the door, her heels clicking in the empty room. With one hand on the doorframe, she paused. Turned her head a little, not quite looking back.

“I’ll be downstairs in the library. Researching. If you decide you actually want to get off your ass and fight this.”

Sam watched her walk out, tracing his fingers over the gun in his lap. It was funny, already knowing what it would feel like to put the barrel in his mouth, already knowing what it would taste like—Dean’s memory, not his. But, for whatever reason, Dean hadn’t pulled the trigger. Dean had been through so much and he was still going: still fighting. He would fight until they broke him. Until they changed him so that he didn’t _want_ to fight anymore. What the hell kind of asshole did that make Sam for giving up like this?

He tightened his jaw and forced himself to his feet. Found his way back to his room and took a quick shower, shaving off a few weeks’ worth of stubble. When he padded back into his bedroom, feeling slightly more human, he went over to the dresser and rifled through the drawers.

Ann had given Dean’s amulet to Sam on that first day after the gun incident, and he’d tossed it out of sight, unable to look at it. He turned it over in his hand now, feeling the cool weight of it, and then slipped the leather cord over his head. The amulet felt strange against his chest, but it was comforting, so he left it.

When he was ready, Sam made his way down to the first floor library and found Ann flipping through a pile of books at a long, oak table. Looking in at her, Sam was hit by a dizzying spell of dejá vu. It was just like Azrael all over again, only this time Dean wasn’t the only thing at stake. He was tempted to turn around and flee, but closed his good hand over the amulet in a fist instead. Took a deep, shaky breath and went in.

He lay the gun down on top of the book Ann was reading. She hesitated for a few seconds and then took it, sliding it back into the holster that hung off the back of her chair. Sam eased himself into the chair on the other side of the table and forced himself to actually look at her.

Ann’s gaze briefly rested on the amulet around Sam’s neck, but when she lifted her eyes to his, all she said was, “You shaved.”

Sam wanted to let Ann sweep it under the rug and couldn’t. He’d never been good at leaving things alone. “I wasn’t exaggerating about what I saw,” he said.

“I didn’t think you were.”

Sam’s jaw twitched. “I still think we’re totally screwed.”

“But?”

“But you’re right. Dean would kick my ass.”

Ann nodded and passed him a book. Returned to her own. Sam bent his head over the volume she had given him, and prayed for a miracle.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A month later, Sam knew more about avatars than he had ever wanted to, and it still wasn’t enough. He knew they were powerful vessels of divine power: that they were God’s hand on earth. He knew that they were hurricanes to the angels’ rain showers. He knew that they couldn’t be killed by mortal means.

Every avatar listed in Ann’s books had taken his own life once they’d finished whatever task God had sent to them. They were men who’d managed to escape mention in the history books for the most part, but who had possessed a great deal of influence on the course of human history. Men who stood at the right hand of earthly power and pushed it in the right direction. Men who spent their time in the company of Hammurabi, and Menes. Of Liu Bang, and Alexander.

And then, finally, there was a name that Sam recognized: the last name in a long succession.

Judas Iscariot.

God used His avatars hard.

And they didn’t even know whether any of this crap would apply to Dean when they saw him again. Didn’t know how corrupting all that power would change him. Sam had an inkling of what Dean would look like, at least, but what he’d seen in the vision didn’t help much with the rest of it. He was sure that the fire Dean had been tossing around was going to be the least of their worries, and had no fucking clue what other nasty surprises lurked behind those cruel, golden eyes.

He’d called Bobby and given him a quick and dirty summary of what had happened to Dean. Asked the man to pack up his books and come join them at Ann’s so that they could try and work through this together. He’d omitted any mention of his apocalyptic vision: it wasn’t the type of thing you could say over the phone.

But by the end of the first month, when Bobby still hadn’t shown—stalling for a different reason every other day—Sam had begun to consider just telling the man to push him out the door. He didn’t understand why Bobby was dragging his feet: would have pressured him sooner if Bobby hadn’t been continually sending them pieces of information. If he hadn’t been spending his time in South Dakota compiling a list of demonic powers that Dean might have access to.

But more and more, Sam needed Bobby in Oregon, and not just to help research. He needed the man’s steadying influence. Needed to lean on his strength. He felt awkward and ashamed that he was depending on Ann so much—sexist, maybe, but there it was. It didn’t help that things had been … uncomfortable … between them ever since Sam had stopped moping around and gotten his head in the game. Sam assumed it was because of what he’d done almost done to her in the second floor library, and for once he wasn’t all that eager to discuss the issue.

So Sam was surprised, but incredibly relieved, when Bobby showed up on Ann’s doorstep exactly forty days after Dean had disappeared. At the sound of the man’s voice coming through the callbox, Sam couldn’t contain himself. He hurried out to the driveway to meet Bobby as he drove up in a battered Ford pickup, boxes of books stacked high in the back.

“Hey, Bobby!” he called.

Bobby swung down out of the cab and grunted in return. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Dean’s amulet swinging from Sam’s neck, and his lips twisted into a frown. Sam suddenly remembered that they hadn’t parted on the best of terms and held back from pulling the man into a welcoming bear hug.

Bobby lugged a canvas bag out of the passenger seat and slung it over his shoulder. Then he turned back, studying Sam with an impenetrable expression. After almost a full minute of strained silence, he said, “We’ve gotta talk, Sam.”

Sam’s stomach fluttered nervously. “Sure,” he agreed. “What about?”

“Not here.” Bobby’s eyes slid past Sam and he nodded, tipping his cap. “You must be Ms. Tallahause.”

Sam shifted to the side and watched Ann come out to join them. She offered Bobby her hand and smiled warmly at him. “I am. And you’re Bobby Singer. Sam’s been singing your praises.”

“He has, has he?” Bobby muttered, glancing at Sam again. Sam tried to read the expression in the man’s eyes and failed miserably. His chest tightened. _Something’s wrong._

“I don’t think there’s anyone he trusts more,” Ann continued. Her voice was serene, but the look she shot at Sam said that she felt something was off as well.

“Christo,” Sam blurted, and Bobby gave him an annoyed look.

“I’m not possessed, Sam.”

Sam shoved his hands into his pockets. “Then what is it? Bobby, what’s—”

“Inside.” Bobby pulled the bag closer. “You got a VCR in this place?” he asked Ann.

“There’s one in the Media Room.” She led them inside and down a hall, keeping close to Sam and deliberately flashing the gun she was wearing under her jacket at him. Sam shook his head slightly. He didn’t know what was going on here, but they weren’t shooting Bobby.

At the end of a wide hallway, Ann pushed open a door. “It’s right in here. I’ll just—”

“No,” Bobby interrupted. “You should see this too. You’ve got a right to know.”

Ann and Sam ended up sitting on the couch next to each other while Bobby fiddled with the media center. VCR, DVD player, stereo system that most clubs would have killed to get their hands on, and a massive, flat-screen TV that took up half a wall. Sam slid his hand up and toyed with the amulet while he waited. This wasn’t going to be good, whatever it was. He could tell from the sour taste in the back of his mouth.

Finally, Bobby picked up the remote and walked around to lean against one wall. Settling his eyes on Sam, he said, “You’ve probably been wondering why I didn’t come sooner. Well, I was trying to figure out what to do about this.”

He hit play and Sam moved his eyes forward to the TV screen. And then he went completely still, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. He heard Ann gasp beside him.

“Turn it off,” Sam whispered, unable to look away. It was like watching a train wreck.

“I don’t think so,” Bobby answered, and now Sam could hear the undercurrent of anger in his voice. “It’s just getting to the good part.”

The film quality was grainy, but it was clear enough that Sam could see the exact moment the man in the chair died. He saw the wings fold up and nestle back underneath Dean’s skin. Saw Dean wipe the knife off on the man’s shirt before tucking it back into his boot.

The screen went dark for a few seconds and then there was another room. Another surveillance camera. This time Dean had just started. It was a woman, and even without the sound on Sam could hear her screaming because this was one of the memories he’d plucked out of his brother’s head.

He forced his eyes shut. He’d already seen what came next once and he didn’t want to have to look at it again. He heard Ann make a choked, sick noise beside him and knew the exact moment Dean really hit his stride.

“Turn it off,” he said again, louder.

This time Sam heard the click of the VCR as Bobby obeyed. He chanced a glance up at the screen and saw fuzz instead of the dark grey of spilled blood and the deeper black of wings.

“Where’d you—”

“Get it? Came special delivery about a month ago.”

The demon. Had to be. Bastard had been the one assigning Dean targets with Azrael. It had somehow arranged to get the whole thing on tape. Why? Had it already been planning this then? No, probably not. Sam suspected that this was just something the demon had done on the off chance that it would be useful at some point. Covering its bases, so to speak.

“You lied to me, Sam,” Bobby growled. “You told me that you and Dean killed that son of a bitch.”

“We did. It—It’s complicated.”

“You better uncomplicate it real quick, boy.”

Sam looked over finally, expecting to see Bobby’s gun trained on him, but the man was just leaning against the wall, the remote dangling loosely from one hand. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t armed. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t shoot Sam in a second if he didn’t explain things to Bobby’s satisfaction.

“Sam,” Ann said, and he knew she was going for her gun.

He reached over and grabbed her arm. “No,” he said firmly.

“I ain’t gonna shoot you,” Bobby put in unexpectedly. “Wouldn’t have come here unless I was ready to control myself. But this—you better have a real good explanation for this, Sam, or I ain’t gonna help you either.”

“Okay, but you might want to sit down.”

“I’m good where I am, thanks.”

And of course the man wanted to be near the door. Wanted to be on his feet in case he needed to move fast. Sam nodded, swallowing thickly.

“Yeah, okay. Uh.” For a few moments he wasn’t sure where to start, but then he realized that there really was only way to begin. “You remember—must’ve been six years ago now—when I called you for help? Dean had gotten infected by a demon, and we didn’t know what to do about it? You sent us to Rachel Harlon.”

Bobby nodded slowly. “Yeah, I remember. She disappeared around then, didn’t she? Bargained with something when she should have run and earned herself a hole in the ground for her troubles?”

“Actually, she didn’t die. She just, uh, relocated. She—God, this is hard.”

“Sam.” Ann put a gentle hand on his shoulder and when he glanced up she was offering him a glass of what smelled like brandy. He’d been so wrapped up in his own memories that he hadn’t even felt her leave the couch.

At his questioning look, she said. “I thought you could use a drink. Now take it already.” When Sam obeyed, Ann turned her attention to Bobby. “Would you like one?”

Bobby shook his head wordlessly, and Sam knew from past experience that the man wouldn’t touch a drop until he’d made up his mind about this whole mess. Bobby didn’t make decisions with alcohol running through his system.

Sam tossed back his entire glass in one swallow. It made his eyes water and his throat burn, but he wanted the soothing effects as soon as possible. Those years when Dean had been under Azrael’s thumb had been a living nightmare, and he’d never actually had to talk it through out loud with anyone before.

Ann sat down next to him again and slid her hand on top of his, threading their fingers together. Sam hesitated and then shifted his grip so that her hand was resting in his. Despite the past few weeks, it didn’t feel awkward.

Feeling a little more grounded, he began again. Bobby leaned quietly against the wall while Sam told him about their visit to Rachel’s, about his own memory loss in the months after. About Rachel summoning Dean. Torturing him. Working him up to murder. Threatening Sam.

When Sam got to the bit about losing Dean to the son of a bitch, Bobby felt his way over to a nearby chair and dropped down into it, wiping his mouth. Ann’s grip tightened on Sam as he described that endless phone call, and her other hand came up to rub along his arm. He leaned into her a little as he finished, taking the offered comfort while he described that night in the barn, and the long months of trying to put Dean back together afterwards. Then, feeling exhausted and sore inside, he shut his mouth and waited.

Bobby sighed. Leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

Sam’s throat clenched and his vision swam. He ducked his head to stare at his hands. “That’s okay, Bobby, I understand. Just—before you go, you have to listen to—”

“Shut up, Sam.”

Startled, Sam glanced up and found Bobby smiling at him faintly. The man’s eyes were red-rimmed like he’d been drinking.

“I’m sorry you boys had to go through that alone.”

Sam almost choked on the sudden surge of hope. “Bobby, I—”

“Don’t thank me,” Bobby cut him off, shaking his head. “In my own way, I’m as responsible for that mess as you seem to think you are. I knew that Rachel—Azrael, I guess I should say—was bad news and I sent you two to her anyway.”

“It’s not your fault, I should have—”

“Don’t pull that crap with me, Samuel Winchester. You and I might have helped, but this belongs to that twisted angel, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam mumbled.

Bobby snorted. “Try not to sound too enthusiastic.”

Sam grimaced and then said, “There’s more. About Dean. I was waiting for you to get here.”

Bobby’s eyes sharpened. “You know what the demon wants with him, don’t you?” he guessed.

“I saw it in a vision.” And there was just no good way to say this, so he might as well get it out in the open. “Bobby, it’s going to use Dean to kill everyone.”

“We talking about the War, here?”

“Yeah.”

Bobby nodded as though he had expected nothing less, but his face went white. “I think I’ll take that drink now.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Three hours later, they had moved into the kitchen while Ann’s staff brought Bobby’s books into the first floor library. Bobby was frowning down at the cup of whisky-laced coffee in front of him. “And you’re sure there’s nothing else?” he demanded.

“That’s everything,” Sam agreed. “I know it’ll happen in Kansas, and that it’ll be sometime next year—the priest said something about an eclipse, but he didn’t say where. There’s at least a hundred eclipses scheduled, so that doesn’t exactly narrow our time frame down.”

“It’s better than nothing.” Bobby hesitated and then added, “But Sam, I’ve gotta tell you that we’re not in the best position here.” He tapped the tape, sitting on the table by Sam’s elbow. “I doubt that I’m the only one who got one of these.”

Sam grimaced and rubbed at the bridge of his nose lightly, conscious of the fact that it was still healing. “It’s trying to cut us off,” he said.

Bobby nodded. “I’d guess so, yeah. Any hunter sees that tape ain’t gonna be real inclined to listen to what you have to say. Lot of people lost friends to the Angel of Death, and they aren't gonna give you a chance to explain before they start putting holes in you.”

“But I’m not on the tape,” Sam protested.

“You think people don’t know you and Dean live in each others’ back pockets? They won’t have to see you to assume you knew what was going on and cleaned up after him. And that right there’s enough for most of them to put you down without a moment’s hesitation. Hell, there’s probably those out there’ll think you put Dean up to it. Who’ll wonder if you’ve got wings of your own.”

“What about you?” Ann asked. “Can’t you make them listen?”

“Maybe. Some of them. I can fudge around the details of where I got the information, but at some point we’re gonna have to tell them Sam’s in charge, so there’s really no point in—”

“Woah!” Sam said quickly, sitting up straighter. “ _I’m_ in charge? Who said anything about—”

“I hate to say it, Sam, but he’s right,” Ann put in. “I don’t know much about you hunters, but you seem like a bunch of alpha dogs running around in a pretty small yard.”

“That about covers it,” Bobby grunted.

“ _Someone’s_ going to have to be in charge if you ever want to get anything done. And if demons are planning on using Dean to jumpstart their attack, that someone’s going to have to be you. You know Dean, and—well, seeing you might distract him long enough for our side to get a few hits in.”

“A few hits on what?” Sam asked, his throat dry.

“You know on what,” Ann said, and when Sam started to push to his feet she grabbed his wrist. “Sam, I know it’s hard, but I also know that you agree with me, or you would never have pulled the trigger in the first place.”

“That was different,” Sam muttered, but it really wasn’t, and he had realized that before Ann could finish snorting in derision. “No one else,” he said quickly, backtracking. “If we’re going to do this—if we can find a way to—to kill him—then it’s gonna be me.”

“Sam, you don’t—”

“I mean it,” Sam insisted, pinning them both with his eyes. He suspected that he looked more than a little frantic, but he didn’t really care. “Dean’s my brother. He’s my responsibility.” He realized that he was gripping the amulet hard enough to bruise his palm and forced himself to let it go.

“All right, Sam,” Ann said softly, and he let her tug him back into his seat.

“And I’m not—” Sam took a deep breath and admitted, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. You really shouldn’t let me run things. I’ll only screw up again.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Bobby said, leaning back in his chair and tilting his cap up. “Then again, it might not matter either way, cause I’m pretty sure you’re right about us being fucked.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Sam muttered.

Bobby lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “You said it first, Sam.”

Which was true, but that didn’t mean Sam liked hearing it repeated back to him. He pressed his lips together and ran his hands through his hair in a rough motion. “Okay, then, any ideas about what we should do?”

“Well, the three of us aren't gonna get real far on our own, so first order of business is to spread the word. Round up a few more willing hands.”

Sam frowned. “I thought you said no one was going to listen.”

“No, I just said it wouldn’t be easy—weren’t you paying attention?”

“Fine. So we spread the word.”

“No, _I_ spread the word. You stay here and keep your head down. Those tapes are gonna shake a few whack jobs loose and they’ll be gunning for you. You aren’t gonna be much use to anyone lying around in a box six feet under.”

“Nice to know you care.”

“Welcome. While you’re here, you and Ms. Tallahouse here—”

“It’s Ann, Bobby.”

Bobby tugged his cap at her. “You and Ann can try and find something that we can use.”

“Something that’ll take Dean out, you mean,” Sam said dully.

Bobby dropped his gaze from Sam’s. His hand twitched around his mug. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

They weren’t gonna get real far with this if they couldn’t even look each other in the eye when discussing strategy. Sam shifted a little in his seat and cleared his throat. “What if we can’t find anything?”

Bobby offered him a humorless grin. “Then we pull together as many guns as we can and we make them work for it.”


	4. Chapter 4

Another month of fruitless searching later and Sam was lying in bed thinking of Dean. It wasn’t an unusual place for his thoughts to wander these days, since he spent most of his waking moments trying to come up with a way to kill his brother—how fucked up was _that_?—but tonight he was also prodding at that hollow, aching place inside of him. He was feeling along the empty link the way he used to poke his tongue in the indents in his gum when his baby teeth fell out.

Sam slid into sleep while probing at it, and it felt like falling down a well. It felt like going deep inside of himself and then out into some kind of long, dark tunnel. He could feel something at the other end of the darkness, somewhere on the other side of eternity. He concentrated on it, reaching, and felt himself inch closer.

Something became someone. Became the sense and feel that Sam associated with Dean in his head. And as he slipped closer still, Dean resolved into Dean in pain. Into the sensation of his brother buried so far underneath his agony that he was trying to force his way out of his body and into that tunnel where everything was cool and still.

 _Dean_ , Sam thought, and although he didn’t have a voice here, he felt the word pass out from him and slide down that impossibly distant tunnel into his brother.

He sensed Dean pull himself out of the pain a little. Heard a voice, felt a cold cloth settle on his—on Dean’s—forehead.

“I’m here, son,” the voice said. “I’m right here.”

 _Dad?_ Sam thought. _Dean, was that Dad?_

Then something heavy and burning was shoving up the tunnel. Sam backpedaled before it and wasn’t fast enough. He found himself grabbed and shaken free of wherever he was and hurled into a room he’d never seen before.

Sam took a few stumbling steps before coming to a stop, staring around at the walls lined with books. At the ornate, oversized bed, where he found himself looking at … himself, fast asleep and sprawled on top of one woman and with another curled up next to him. They were all naked, and the crimson sheets were twisted around their bodies in a way that told Sam that sleeping wasn’t all that they’d used the bed for. He stood there and stared at his dream self, trying to figure out what was going on, and then jumped when an arm dropped around his shoulders.

“Like what you see?” the demon leered.

Sam shoved it off of him. He tried to think of something to say and kept coming up blank. Those sick yellow eyes stole all of his words the same way that the bastard had stolen his brother.

It smirked and paced toward the bed, running a hand along one of the dark cherry posts. “This could be yours, you know. Women, wealth, knowledge.”

“And meanwhile Dean’s what?” Sam rasped. “Chained to a wall somewhere waiting for something to need killing?”

“Hardly.”

The demon gestured and one of the walls dissolved into a window looking in on another room. Blue walls, thick carpeting. Another oversized bed with Dean half-buried under a pile of naked women. Trays of food everywhere. It would have been Dean’s version of Heaven if it wasn’t for the knives littering the floor, and the bloodstains on the walls, and the massive, smoky wings protruding from his brother’s shoulders. Sam knew without asking that the blood wasn’t Dean’s.

“When Dean’s services aren’t required, he’ll be able to … amuse himself … however he wishes.”

“No,” Sam said, backing away and shaking his head. “I’m not gonna let you do that to him.”

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. This is Dean’s either way you choose. Your circumstances are the only thing that’ll change.”

The room spun around them and now it was smaller: less extravagant. The bed was the same, and Sam was still in it, but he was alone this time, and there was a long chain bolting his ankle to the wall.

Sam watched the door to the room open. Watched Dean—or the thing that Dean would become—stroll inside, carelessly dragging a woman by the throat. Sam’s future self, his face twisted in horror, pushed off of the bed and backed away. Dean tossed the girl at him.

“Brought you a present, Sammy,” Dean said lightly. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Dean, please—”

“Be careful with this one,” Dean continued, and it was as though he hadn’t even noticed Sam was speaking. “It’s getting harder to find pretty girls that can still think, and I know how much you like to talk.”

Sam watched his face harden as he tried to calm the girl down. “I’m not the one who killed the last fifteen.”

And then Dean’s eyes narrowed and Sam’s future self was tossed against the wall. Red lines opened along his face and chest, blood flowing out to stain the sweat pants he was wearing. Dean stalked up to him. Ran his fingers across the cuts before choosing one and digging in.

“What was that, Sammy? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I said thank you,” Sam gasped, head thrown back in pain.

Dean’s smile was open and sweet as he lowered Sam back down to the floor. He ruffled Sam’s hair and the cuts on his skin knit back together, leaving Sam bloodied but unhurt.

“Clean yourself up,” Dean ordered. He kicked the chain around Sam’s ankle and it snapped open. “I want to show you my new toy. She’s a girl scout. Precious, right?”

He flopped down onto the bed to wait, lacing his hands behind his head, and froze there as the demon stepped forward. It prowled in a circle around the future Sam, who was leaning against the wall with a defeated, despairing expression on his face. When the demon looked back over its shoulder, it was grinning.

“You decide to be stupid about this, and you’ll be the first gift I give him. The seers say he’ll never get tired of you. Not even when you’re insane and drooling. Now that’s devotion.”

“I’ll stop you,” Sam said, his throat finally unlocking. “You’re never going to make it this far.”

“Newsflash, Sammy: Dean’s already mine. And every minute you stand here denying it, big brother’s changing—refining into what I need.”

“I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

It laughed. “You’re welcome to try. And bring those pathetic hunters with you—any that’ll still talk to you, that is. I’ll need to take Dean for a little test drive before we get down to business.”

Then the dream ripped away into scenes of Dean slaughtering people, and it was a sickening blend of the memories Sam had gotten from his brother and Sam’s own imagination. Sometimes Dean wept when he killed, sometimes he laughed. Only the red haze of fire burning in the background was constant. In the morning, the thick reek of fresh blood and rotting flesh chased Sam from his bed and into the bathroom.

It took him a few days to work through the horror and rage that the demon had provoked. Took him a few days to realize that it had thrown those visions of the future at him to distract him from what he’d felt before. To keep him from thinking about that endless tunnel and what he’d been doing there.

And for the first time in months, Sam allowed himself to hope that he wouldn’t have to kill his brother to save him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“You can’t leave,” Ann insisted again. “You know there are people out there looking for you, people that want to kill you—listen to me, damn it!”

“I am listening,” Sam pointed out as he shoved more of his shirts into an oversized duffel bag. “It just doesn’t matter.”

Ann yanked the duffle off the bed and held it away from him. “Don’t be stupid! You can’t help Dean if you’re dead.”

“I can’t help him if I just sit here either—give me the bag, Ann!”

“No. You won’t even tell me where you’re going.”

Damn straight he wouldn’t. “It’s none of your business,” he said, and used his longer reach to snatch the bag back. It was only half-full, but he figured that was going to have to do. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he was going to lose his temper and say something he’d regret.

“Not my business?” Ann repeated incredulously, trailing after him as he hurried out of his room. “Of course it’s my business! We need you alive if we’re even going to have a chance to do anything. You go out there on your own after God knows what and they’ll kill you. And I can’t—” She cut herself off abruptly with a strangled sound.

Despite his need to have been gone yesterday, Sam paused and glanced back at her. She was standing in the middle of the hall with her arms wrapped around herself, struggling not to cry. He knew how she felt. These days, he knew all too well.

Sam sighed and dropped the bag. Took two steps back to her and pulled her against his chest. “Hey,” he murmured. “Hey, it’s gonna be all right.”

She shook her head stubbornly, and her arms came up around him. “Don’t do this, Sam. I c-can’t lose you. I— _we_ —need you. Sam, please.”

He bent a little so that he could rest his chin on her head. “I have to go, Ann. I think I found a way to stop this, but I need to move fast if I’m gonna be ready in time.”

“Why can’t you do it here? I can—anything you need, Sam, I can get it for you if you just—”

“You can’t bring me what I need for this.”

Ann pulled back enough to look up into his face and now Sam saw that she _was_ crying, her face splotchy and red. And damned if that didn’t make him want to wrap her back in his arms and hold her until she was smiling again.

“Then let me come with you,” she begged. “I can help—I know how to shoot. I can watch your back.”

“I need to do this alone, Ann. I promise I’ll be careful, okay?” He wiped her cheeks clean with one hand, first one side and then the other. God, it hurt to see her looking so sad. But he had to do this for Dean. Hell, for everyone.

“You know that you’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had next to Dean, right?” he said, trying to reassure her. “You know I love you?”

She only smiled at that—a little sadly, he thought—and let him go. “Yes, Sam. I know.” Stepping back, she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I’m being so silly. It’s just stress and nerves.”

“I’ll be fine, Ann. Really. And I promise I’ll call when I can and let you know how I’m doing. When Bobby checks in, tell him he can catch me on my cell, all right?”

She nodded and he gave her another quick hug before turning to go.

“Sam?”

He picked up his bag again and glanced at her over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“If you die out there, I swear to God I’ll find some way to bring you back so I can kill you myself.”

He offered her a wry grin. “If I die out there, I’ll let you.” This time she let him go, and Sam didn’t look back.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Missouri had walked him through it on the phone after he’d explained that he wasn’t willing to put her at risk by meeting in person. Her instructions hadn’t been too difficult to understand, though. Sam was supposed to go on a kind of pilgrimage. Only instead of visiting holy sites, he would be visiting places that held strong memories of his brother. Sam had spent all morning listing destinations in his head and more kept coming up.

Oak Island, North Carolina: Dean had taught him to swim in the warm waters of the Southern Atlantic.

Palo Alto, California: for better or worse, Dean had pulled Sam out of another burning building.

Knoxville, Tennessee: Dean had dragged Sam out to his first bar and gotten him drunk on Kamikaze shots, making those stupid plane noises every time Sam managed to choke one down.

A nameless roadside stop near Dayton, Wisconsin: the three of them had spent a cramped night in the Impala, and Sam had woken up to discover that he’d stretched out in his sleep during the night and all but shoved Dean off the back seat.

Farmington, West Virginia: Dean had helped Sam form his first scraggily letters—D-O-R-K—and told him that was how you spelled Sammy.

Juno, Texas: Sam had walked away from his family and two days later found five hundred in tens and twenties stuffed into his bag. The bills still smelled faintly of leather and gunpowder and that deeper, comforting scent that was pure Dean.

Sam thought he could drive for years and not retouch on all the places that had defined his relationship with his brother, but he didn’t have years. He had four months at best, maybe less.

Missouri had told him months ago that the link between him and Dean could be a weakness or an advantage. Sam was done letting the demon exploit that connection to hurt his brother. He was through seeing it as a weakness: as something to be hated and feared.

And if it took a few months of driving around the country with a huge red target painted on his back to strengthen the link—to learn how to reach down into himself and find Dean waiting for him every time—then that was exactly what Sam was going to do.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam was in the restroom of a shitty gas station in Nowhere, Wyoming, the first time someone tried to kill him. He was in the middle of relieving himself when the door opened behind him, and his first thought was that he’d forgotten to lock it.

“Someone’s in here,” he grunted, glancing over his shoulder, and then dropped to the floor as a man wearing coveralls and a plaid red shirt fired at him.

Pain flared in Sam’s left arm but he ignored it, rolling toward the door and into the man’s legs. The man grunted as he toppled over and the gun went off again, spraying Sam’s cheek with splintered tile. There was a sickening crack as the man’s head hit the edge of the sink and then the near-silence of Sam’s panting mingled with cries of alarm from outside.

Sam pushed himself to his feet and shoved his dick back into his pants. It was a miracle he didn’t catch himself in the zipper as he hurried out of the room, resolutely not looking at the spreading puddle of red around his attacker’s head. Hands shaking, he got back into the Impala and peeled out of the station. He drove for an hour before he thought to pull over to the shoulder and check out his arm. Just a shallow graze, thank God, which had stopped bleeding at least fifty miles back.

After the second attempt in Nebraska a few days later, Sam took the scissors out of the first aid kit and cut his hair. He used Dean’s razor to even it out and then ran a hand across the short, barely-there remnants. Just in case, he also trashed all of his old clothes and splurged on a new set, deliberately choosing yuppie sweaters and collared shirts that he never would have touched before. He bought a pair of glasses and knocked the prescription lenses out, replacing them with plain glass. There was really no disguising his height, but if he slouched he figured he’d be a little bit less noticeable.

He still had to be careful because of the car, of course. Twice he was eating in a roadside diner and saw a man come in with one hand inside of his jacket, eyes scanning the room. Both times Sam had waited a few minutes and then gone outside. Called the police on his cell and reported that he’d just seen a suspicious looking man with a gun.

Hunters generally didn’t have licenses to carry concealed weapons, and those two had been no exception. By the time the men had made bail, Sam had already been hundreds of miles away.

It would have been easier if he had ditched the Impala and taken Ann up on her offer of a car, but Sam refused to even consider it. Stupid, maybe, but it made him feel less alone to travel this way, and so many of his memories of his brother were tied up in the damned thing.

During long hours on the road, Sam listened to Dean’s music and practiced the shielding exercises Missouri had taught him—tricks that would hopefully keep the yellow-eyed bastard from invading his mind again. It seemed to be working because, although it still visited Sam in his dreams to taunt him, the demon seemed frustrated. And it kept asking what he thought he was doing, which was enough to tell Sam that it didn’t know what he was planning.

That small victory gave him the strength to listen to the demon describe the things Dean was going to do for it: to watch the scenes of destruction and torture it delighted in showing him. Dean’s hand on the whip, or the knife, or the poker. Once, memorably, just Dean’s hand pressed against a woman’s stomach while her skin melted around his fingers.

But that wasn’t the Dean Sam saw during the day. It wasn’t Dean at fifteen, amused and a little embarrassed to be explaining the mechanics of sex to his younger brother. It wasn’t Dean at thirteen, sneaking Sam out in the middle of the night to watch a meteor shower from the back parking lot of the motel they were staying in. It wasn’t even Dean at twenty-two, shouting at Sam and calling him a traitor: wasn’t the Dean that had punched him clean off his feet and then snuck his savings into Sam’s duffle when he wasn’t looking.

The demon’s Dean didn’t exist yet, and if Sam could do this—if he could manage not to fuck up just once in his life—then he never would.

Sam drove and remembered his brother. He drove and relearned the mechanics of hope. But he didn’t try to reach through the link and touch Dean again. He wasn’t sure whether it was because he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to find his brother, or terrified that he would.


	5. Chapter 5

Time was a confused jumble of pain and heat and ice. Of his father’s voice and the clank of chains. Of acid tumbling through his veins and lightning bunching beneath his shoulder blades.

In moments of near-coherency, Dean apologized to his father. He shivered at the cold cloths on his forehead and the bags of ice at the base of his neck and spilled confessions from his lips. He was weak, he’d killed, he’d abandoned Sammy, he’d Fucked Up with a capital F and he was so goddamned sorry. There was just enough of him left beneath the pain to despair when those were the words that actually came out of his mouth, instead of stuttered, aborted attempts. Because he shouldn’t be able to swear. Not anymore.

He choked on the water Dad poured down his throat. When he refused to eat—couldn’t make his jaw work, didn’t want to even if he could—there was the tiny prick of an IV in his arm, mostly lost against the rush of agony that filled him. He didn’t think he slept, but he couldn’t be sure. Must have at some point because once he thought he heard Sammy’s voice, calling him.

He shied away from that particular dream because, Christ, Sam had _shot_ him, Sam was disgusted by him, and Sam wasn’t going to come riding to the rescue this time. After a while Dean managed enough focus to make himself forget, and his memories of Sam were shoved down into that same dark place where he’d kept his brother during his time with Azrael. The pain almost drowned out that confusing feeling that something was missing, even if he didn’t know what it was.

Finally, Dean opened his eyes and actually saw his father’s face. He hurt everywhere, hurt too much to cry or to even begin to catalogue it, but he could think again. His skin felt hot and swollen, filled too full with things it had never been meant to hold.

The area across his shoulder blades was the worst, and he could feel the power shuddering there. Could feel it shifting and trying to press out the way it had when he'd borne Azrael’s mark. Dean suspected it would give him some relief if he just let it do what it wanted, but he’d be damned if he was going to go there again. Hell, he was probably going to be damned anyway, but there were some lines that he wasn’t going to cross, even now.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he whispered in a voice that sounded like it had been shoved through a meat grinder.

Dad’s eyes flashed darker with pain and he grimaced, putting a hand on top of the cloth that was currently running cold water down the sides of Dean’s face and into his hair. “It’s okay, son. I’m here. I’m right here.” His voice was pained—Dean’s fault—and Dean swallowed and tried again.

“I’m sorry, Dad; I fucked up. I wuh-wasn’t strong enough.” There was something else too: something that he couldn’t quite remember. Something to do with that empty place inside of him.

Dad made a choked sound and patted Dean’s hair with one hand while wiping his eyes with the back of the other. He cast his gaze up at the ceiling. “I can’t do this anymore, you sadistic fuck,” he moaned.

The air shimmered behind him and the demon was there, tall and with shaggy brown hair and eyes that should have been green but weren’t. Dean felt like he should know who it was mimicking—felt he could remember if he tried—and deliberately turned away from the knowledge.

“You say that every day, John,” it pointed out, and the voice was all wrong. Too deep and filled with a mocking cruelty. “How’s our boy?” It leaned over John’s shoulder, peering down at Dean, and Dean pressed his eyes shut and turned his face away.

“He isn’t your—”

“Shut up,” the demon said casually, and John’s voice cut off. “Move.”

The hand on Dean’s forehead lifted and was replaced by another, larger and softer. The new hand trailed down over the wet cloth and onto Dean’s face, trailing water behind. Brushed down across his lips and chin and settled on his throat.

Dean tried to move away from that touch automatically, and a soft moan slipped out from his mouth.

“Back with us, I see,” the demon said, tapping its fingers against the side of his neck.

Dean wanted to take refuge in the pain again. Tried to dive down underneath it and found that it had receded too much to bury consciousness—was still diminishing, leaving him with only that uncomfortable, full feeling. His back was the only place still radiating agony, and he could fix that if he just—No, not gonna happen.

“No use playing possum, Dean,” the demon said. “I know you’re in there.” It tightened its hand on his throat suddenly, startling Dean into opening his eyes. It was smiling at him. “Feeling better?”

“Fuck you,” he spat.

“No more speech impediment. That’s good, Dean. That’s real good. Any lingering pain?” Damned thing sounded like a concerned doctor, moving its hand from his neck to poke and prod at his chest.

“Other than you?” he asked, jerking reflexively at the chains as it ran its hands across the lines of his hips before moving down to his legs. Like he was a horse that it was considering purchasing or something.

“Funny,” the demon grunted.

It sounded distracted by what it was doing. If he just had one hand free, damn it, he could—and then the chains vanished from around his wrists and ankles. Before he could do more than start to pull his arms in and his legs closed, the demon flipped him. He moved to push himself up and the demon put its hand against the small of his back and held him down.

It ignored his struggles while it finished inspecting his lower body, and then it was dragging its fingertips across his shoulders and Dean couldn’t stop himself from crying out. The demon lifted its hand for a second before pressing down again, more firmly this time.

“There it is,” it muttered to itself. “Might’ve known.”

Dean hissed at the sudden flare of pain and tried to scramble away.

“I don’t think so, Dean.”

The demon pulled him up by the hair, dragging him off of the bed and throwing him against the wall. Dean clutched at white plaster as his legs threatened to drop him and then the demon was there, both of its hands pushing against his shoulder blades. Dean’s legs went completely loose and he screamed hoarsely, held up by the agonizing pressure of the demon’s touch.

It dug its fingers into his skin, into the muscle there, and Dean screamed again. It felt like the bastard was reaching inside him, down to where that painful coil of lightning bunched beneath his shoulder blades. It twisted its hands and Dean could only shudder as he felt the power catch against them.

“Just like lancing a boil,” it whispered in his ear.

Dean stiffened. “Don’t—” He lost his voice as the demon scratched its nails across his skin, splitting his back open and spilling power. Felt the demon’s hands in the middle of the flood, and it was horribly intimate, like the damned thing was poking around inside of him.

Dean slid down to kneel on the floor, his head resting against the wall, and let the power pulse out of his back. It felt like the release he needed to keep from bursting apart at the seams. It felt good and he hated it. He was heavier, unbalanced, and he knew without looking what had happened.

“There, isn’t that better?” the demon asked, and it stroked its hands through wings that were there and weren’t at the same time. Ruffled feathers that were more smoke than flesh. Dean shuddered and felt the wings move with him. He breathed in deeply to avoid throwing up at the sensation.

The demon hummed as it petted the wings, sending oily ripples deep inside him, and Dean found himself getting angry. Fucker had toyed with him enough. Had tortured him with his memories of Azrael and used … someone … to keep Dean from finding his way free from the whole sorry mess. It had taken Dad away from Dean, and killed his mother years before, and it had … had done something else that he couldn’t quite remember.

Dean was flooded with power, and even with the wings bleeding off some of the excess, his skin burned with it. He knew without a second thought that he could shred the demon into nothingness. Could blow a big, smoking hole in Hell if he wanted to. And yeah, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to do it. Bastards had pushed him too far, and now he was going to push back. He was done being everyone else’s meat.

Dean surged to his feet and the demon stepped back. He turned, wings fanning out behind him, and gathered the power rushing through him. Sent it at the demon in a focused strike and felt it fizzle away impotently as soon as it had left his body. What the fuck?

The demon was laughing at him. “Not bad. Want to try again?”

Dean snarled and shoved another, larger, ball of power at its smirking face. Again, he felt it dissipate against the demon’s skin. Okay, fine. He’d use his hands then. Rip the fucker apart.

Dean took a step forward, reaching, and stopped. Couldn’t get any closer. The wings snapped in frustration.

“Why?” he growled.

“Why can’t you hurt me?” The demon chuckled. “We made a deal, remember? You can’t touch me for another three months. I can still do this, though.” Its power shredded into him, crushing his chest the way it had in the cabin and driving him to his knees. It wasn’t going to kill him—he was healing the damage almost as soon as the demon inflicted it—but it still hurt like a bitch.

A muffled, pained groan brought Dean’s attention back to the bed. His father was standing stiffly next to it, watching with tears streaming down his cheeks. Maybe Dean couldn’t touch the demon, but he had a feeling that he could at least do something to free his father.

“Mmm,” the demon mused, pacing forward. “That’s a good position on you. Nice and subservient. Bow your head, Dean.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean responded, and sent another sharp bolt of power out, not at the demon, but at his father. It crashed into John and he went up in a white bonfire. Dean thought he caught a flicker of relief on his father’s face before the fire devoured him, but couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because the demon let out a cry of rage and the pain in his chest intensified. Dean hunched down automatically, only to have the demon wrench his head back up with one hand tangled in his hair.

“That was my favorite pet,” it hissed.

“Oops,” he panted. “What can I say? I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Yes, you will.”

It twisted Dean’s hair once more, viciously, and then released him. Backing up a step, it dropped something on the floor in front of him. That fucking metal collar from his dreams. No chain lead running from it this time, though, which was … what? An improvement?

“Put it on,” the demon ordered.

“I’ve got a better idea. How about you let me go and I’ll kill you quick.”

“We’ve been over this, Dean. You can’t hurt me.”

“Give me three months. I’ll hurt you plenty.”

The demon narrowed its eyes. “You’ve got one more chance to put the collar on.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking no.”

“Pity.” It moved next to him and hauled him to his feet, turning him so that he faced the wall again. There was a red door where the demon had ripped the wings from Dean’s back. “I think you remember what happens now?”

“Pretty weak,” Dean said, trying to make his voice light. “I mean, haven’t we done this before? It’s getting kind of boring.”

“But it works so well,” the demon purred. “Besides, there’s a neat little twist this time.”

“Yippee,” Dean muttered, and then the door was opening, and the demon was shoving him forward, and he was standing in the basement again. And yeah, it was different.

There weren’t any chains. There wasn’t a table for the blades. There weren’t torture implements hanging on the walls. But the room was filled with demons, all of them staring at him like they were starving and he was a tenderloin steak with all the fixings.

“Now,” the demon said, coming up behind him. “Anytime you want this to stop, you just say the word.”

Dean’s mouth was dry and he felt sick to his stomach. All the power flooding through him and he wasn’t going to be able to stop this. Wasn’t going to be able to fight back without surrendering to the demon first.

“And Dean?” The yellow-eyed bastard dropped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “This time I actually want you to give in, so we’re just gonna keep this up until you decide to get smart, okay?” It gave his shoulder a squeeze and then took its hand away. “I wouldn’t take too long to make up my mind, if I were you. I’d prefer it if you were still capable of coherent thought, but it’s not strictly necessary.”

Then it planted a hand in the small of Dean’s back and shoved him forward.

“Have fun, boys.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean’s body was putting itself back together and no one was breaking it open again. Huh. He could hear someone whimpering, and after a minute of breathing through his mouth and tasting copper on his tongue, he realized that the sound was coming from him. Cracking one eye open, he looked at the yellow-eyed demon, which was crouched next to him and dragging one finger through the puddle of blood on the floor.

Dean tried to get up and his arms weren’t quite healed enough to support his weight. The demon shook its head and wiped its fingers across his cheek. They came away with a fresh coat of blood and what looked suspiciously like bone fragments. Dean would have thrown up if he had anything in his stomach.

“Dean, Dean, Dean. What are you holding on to? Huh?” It cupped his chin and pulled his head around. “All you need to say is one little word and this can all be over. No one will ever hurt you again.” It ran its hand through his hair gently and Dean felt his skull knitting back together underneath its touch.

“What … and miss … all this fun?”

“Thought you said he was gonna be broken by now.”

Dean rolled his eyes over and squinted at a bulky redheaded demon, vaguely noticing that the room was otherwise empty. Oh good.

Around its wrist, the redhead was wearing a smooth metal band that made Dean think of the collar for some reason. Bastard looked familiar, but Dean couldn’t place where he knew it from. Not really surprising, considering the fact that he was having a difficult time just keeping his thoughts coherent right now.

The yellow-eyed demon scowled. “He should be. Especially after Sammy was so accommodating.”

Sammy? Who the hell was … oh. Oh _fuck_. Dean must have made some kind of noise because the demon’s attention jerked back to him. And now Dean remembered exactly whom it was mimicking.

He couldn’t look at it. Rolled onto his side, curling into himself. There was blood seeping into his ear from the floor and he didn’t care. His hip popped back into place and he didn’t really feel it.

 _Sam._

The demon leaned over Dean and he felt those ridiculous bangs again. “Made yourself forget, didn’t you?” It breathed into his ear, its voice thick with pleased realization.

“Don’t …”

“You couldn’t handle the fact that baby brother shot you.”

Dean closed his eyes and shuddered. Shot him. Sam had shot him.

“You know why he did it, don’t you?” the demon prodded.

“No,” Dean moaned. _Don’t say it. I can’t hear it out loud, I can’t—_

“Sammy’s disgusted by you. He saw inside you and now he knows what you’ve always suspected. You’re nothing but a monster, Dean. You’re a rabid dog. That’s why he left you, isn’t it? Why he shot you?”

“No,” he tried. “You said he didn’t—you said he left because—”

“I lied, Dean. You were going to lay down and die and I couldn’t have that, not when you were so close to the finish line.”

And that made so much sense, but Dean clung to his last shred of hope anyway. “You didn’t—you can’t—”

It toyed with one his wings idly. “What, lie? Of course I can. I did. We’ve been over this already, Dean. It’s time for you to face the truth.”

“Sam’s given up on you.”

Its hand stroking his cheek.

“You make him sick.”

Its face nuzzling against his neck.

“He thinks you don’t deserve to live.”

Its lips brushing against his temple in a gentle kiss.

“He hates you.”

Dean let out a hoarse sob.

“Hurts, doesn’t it? I can make the pain go away.”

Yes. Please. Except this was a demon. It was _evil/bad/wrong_.

“Sure I am. But you are too, aren’t you, Dean? You’ve killed. You’ve tortured. You enjoyed it.”

No, he hadn’t. Not enjoyed it. Had he?

“Of course you did. Why else do you think Sammy left? You loved it: the feel of their blood between your fingers. It felt fucking great, didn’t it?”

Maybe it had. Dean couldn’t really remember anymore. It was difficult to think past the clenching pain in his chest. Fuck that hurt. Hurt worse than anything these demonic bastards had done to him. It was strange, because Dean was pretty sure he was completely healed by now, and he was still having difficulty breathing.

“Just say the word and this will all go away.”

To get rid of the pain: God, he couldn’t even imagine what that might feel like. And what was he really resisting for? He was already a monster, wasn’t he? Everyone knew it. _Sammy_ knew it. Hell, he’d just destroyed his own father’s soul, hadn’t he? What the hell kind of person would do a thing like that?

Dean was already damned. All that was left were the formalities.

“Just one little word,” the demon was pressuring.

Dean opened his mouth and it slid out. “… yes …”

“What was that, Dean? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I said yes.”

Something metallic dropped down in front of his face and he opened his eyes. The collar was sitting in the pool of his blood. It seemed to be winking at him.

“Go ahead. Put it on.”

His hand inched toward it, his fingers brushed against the metal. Memories of Azrael flooded through him and he jerked his hand back as though he’d been burned. “I can’t,” he sobbed, and God he wished he could. He wished the damned thing was already around his neck so everything would just go away.

“Shh,” the demon murmured. “It’s okay.” It pulled him up so that he was in a seated position, leaning against the demon’s chest. “I understand you have some problems with the collar. We can do this another way.”

“H-how?”

It nudged his head up, directing his gaze to the basement wall. Azrael was chained there, wearing its Rachel form. Dean breathed out raggedly and the demon rubbed small, reassuring circles on his back lower back.

“She’s not here for you,” it said. “Not like that. But you need to come to me willingly, Dean. If you can’t put the collar on yourself, then I need you to let me do it for you.”

Dean shook his head desperately. “I don’t get it, please, I said yes—”

“I know you did, but saying it isn’t enough. You need to show me. There are certain laws that even I have to follow, and they require an act of fealty. Now, you can give me that either by putting the collar on or by taking this—” it pressed a knife into his hand “—and doing what you’ve wanted to do ever since that bastard touched you.”

Dean glanced down at the knife numbly.

“Come on, Dean,” the demon urged. “It did this to you. It made you into what you are. Don’t you think it deserves a little pay back?”

Yeah. Yeah, he kinda did. Except he didn’t think he could stand. He hurt so fucking much, he was so tired …

“It tried to kill Sammy,” the demon reminded him, and Dean’s blood ran suddenly hot.

 _Azrael slicing Sam’s throat open. Sam’s eyes panicked, his life running out in Dean’s arms._ There had been so much blood. And Sam might hate Dean now, but Dean still loved his brother.

This bitch had hurt Sammy.

Dean didn’t remember getting up, but he must have because he was suddenly right there in front of Azrael. Its Rachel-eyes were wide and pleading, but it wasn’t enough. He dragged the knife in a slow, deep cut along its arm and it still wasn’t anywhere near enough. Red filmed his vision and he lost himself in the sound of screams—not his, for once.

When he came back to himself, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He was drenched in blood though, and bits and pieces of Azrael were scattered about the room. Dean looked at his handiwork and thought that he was going to be sick.

 _Oh God, what have I done?_

Something smooth and cool slid around his neck and clicked shut.

 _No! No, I take it back. Oh, fuck, I take it back._ His hands came up and clawed at the collar, trying to find the catch. Damned thing was impossibly seamless as though it had been welded shut.

“Too late for that, Dean,” the demon gloated. It smirked at him as he backed away, pressing up against the wall. “But don’t worry, Foras is going to get rid of that pesky conscience of yours and none of this will matter anymore.” It glanced sideways at the huge redhead. “And I don’t want him worrying about his brother either. After all, a promise is a promise.”

Before Dean could open his mouth to protest, the redheaded demon had twisted the metal band around its wrist, its eyes narrowed in concentration. Dean felt something inside himself shut off. He fumbled after it, confused, and found only empty space. Weird. Wait, what was he looking for again?

“I want to take my new toy for a little test drive,” the demon said, bringing his attention back to its face. Sam’s face, but looking at it didn’t hurt anymore. “Let’s torture something. Would you like that, Dean?”

What Dean would _like_ was to smash that smiling face in: was to rip the demon’s skin from its flesh and make it hurt. Make it pay for maneuvering him back into this position: chained and bound and subservient.

“Oh no, Dean.” The demon wagged its finger at him. “You can’t hurt me. We have a deal, remember? But there are others you can play with. Others who have hurt you.”

Fucker was right: Dean couldn’t touch it. Not yet. Still, he supposed he’d take whatever payback he could get. After all, how did that saying go? An eye for an eye …

“Malthus,” he growled, and the yellow-eyed bastard grinned at him.

Later, as he flexed his power into Malthus’ struggling body, Dean was plagued by the nagging sensation that he should be bothered by what he was doing, but he couldn’t figure out why.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam was in Atlanta, Georgia, when the sun went out. It was late February, five months and twenty-four days after he’d lost Dean, and Sam was sitting on a park bench eating the red M&Ms out of a bag.

He’d never really cared for them, but he remembered sitting here with Dean when they were kids and watching his brother pick out all the red ones and pile them on the bench arm: according to him, the red ones tasted better. When he was done with the rest of the bag, Dean would slip the pile back in and shove the bag into his pocket. Saving them for later, so he could dole them out one at a time during the long miles on the road. It was one of the few times Sam had ever seen his brother show any patience when it came to food.

So Sam sat on the bench, remembering his brother, and ate the red M&Ms. The others he dropped on the ground in front of him in a colorful litter. He was almost done with the bag when he realized that it was getting dark—darker than could be accounted for by a few clouds passing over the sun. He glanced up and his breath caught, the candy falling from his nerveless hand.

A maroon shadow was spilling across the face of the sun.

Beside a large dogwood tree, a young couple out with their dog were shading their eyes and looking up at the sky. The few children in the nearby playground went still and craned their heads back, mouths hanging a little open. As he glanced back over his shoulder, Sam saw that traffic in the streets had come to a complete halt.

Overhead, the shadow continued to devour the sun until the entire world had been cast into an unnatural, crimson twilight. Slowly, Sam realized that he could hear a car alarm repeatedly sounding a few streets away. From all sides there was the wailing of sirens: some loud enough that he expected to see an ambulance round the corner at any moment, and some so distant that he could barely hear them. One of the little boys playing on the jungle gym started crying.

 _Holy shit, this is it. A week. One week and all of this will be gone._

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” a slim brunette asked, dropping down onto the bench next to him. She tipped her sunglasses down just long enough to display a pair of beetle-black eyes before hiding them again.

Sam shoved his growing panic down and edged his hand into his pocket. Started feeling around for the flask of holy water he carried with him everywhere these days. “What do you want?”

“The question, Sam, is what _you_ want.” The woman leaned back against the bench and stared up at the sky with a slight smile playing across her lips. “In a few weeks, you’ll either be a prince or a slave.”

“In a few weeks, you’ll all be rotting back in Hell where you belong,” Sam said through his teeth. He’d found the flask and was working on unscrewing the top, which was proving a difficult thing to do one-handed.

“And look,” the demon recited. “From the cloud there appeared an angel whose face flashed with fire and whose appearance was defiled with blood. His name was Nebro, which means ‘rebel’; others call him Yaldabaoth.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She tilted her head at him. “Just wait until you see him. He’s magnificent. The way he makes them scream. Pure poetry.”

 _Dean._ Sam’s hand twitched and he briefly lost his grip on the cap. The demon trailed one well-manicured hand down his arm and he resisted the urge to flinch away.

“Pity he destroyed Dear Old Dad before John could see what kind of a son he raised.” She laughed at Sam’s sharp inhalation. “You didn’t know? Oh yes, big brother burned daddy to ashes.”

It took him a moment, but Sam managed to flounder through his horror at the knowledge that Dean had destroyed their father’s soul into an understanding of why he’d done it. _Thank you, Dean._ He pressed his eyes shut and felt the flask finally twist open.

“Good,” he said out loud, shifting his weight and getting ready to move. “Now you sick bastards can’t hurt him anymore.”

The demon pouted. “We were hoping for a family reunion. The Winchester boys together again. Oh well, there’s still you and Dean. _You_ could still have _your_ reunion, Sam. And all you have to do is stop fighting. It’ll be just like old times: the brothers Winchester against the rest of the world. Only this time _you’ll_ be in the driver’s seat.”

She’d slid closer, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, and Sam wasn’t going to get a better shot at this. He yanked the flask from his pocket, spilling a little on himself as it caught on the cotton. Then he swung his arm in a shallow arc, twisting at the same time and pressing the woman’s body against the bench with a hand in the center of her chest.

The demon was snarling at him, but then he poured the water on her face. Her mouth dropped open and she screamed. Steam flooded up in a thick cloud as she thrashed around, trying to push him off. Shoving forward, Sam planted one knee against her stomach and held her in place.

He yanked the rosary from his back pocket and looped it over his left hand before taking hold of both her shoulders and pressing down. More smoke rose from her skin where the rosary brushed it and she bucked against him, screaming obscenities and whipping her head from side to side. Her glasses flew off and she glared at him with those alien black eyes.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio_ —”

“Hey, stop it! I’m calling the pol—” The man who’d run over to interfere got a good look at the woman’s eyes—at the steam curling up from her skin—and immediately fled in the opposite direction.

“You’ll regret this!” the demon hissed. “Your brother’s gonna bleed you dry!”

Sam ignored the threat, pressing on with the words he’d drilled into himself so fiercely that he didn’t even have to think about them anymore. The demon tried to surge up one last time as he neared the end of the incantation and he shoved her back down. Felt a pulse of satisfaction at the pained grunt she made when he did so.

“— _in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen_ ,” he finished, the words flowing fast and sure on top of one another. The woman’s body spasmed underneath his and her mouth opened. Sam leaned back to avoid the black cloud as it rushed out, and growled, “I hope that hurt, you son of a bitch.”

Then the demon was gone and the woman was coughing, groping for her chest. Sam hastily released her, moving away and leaning down to pick up the flask from where it had fallen on the ground. When he glanced back up at the woman, there were tears in her eyes from coughing so hard, but she didn’t seem otherwise injured.

“Wh-where am I?” she choked out. Her eyes darted around the park, and then up at the bloodied sun in the sky. “What’s happening?”

“Eclipse,” Sam grunted as he shoved the rosary back into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He thumbed out two twenties, hesitated, and then added a third. Who knew how far from home she was? Besides, it wasn’t like he was going to need the money.

“You’re in Centennial Olympic Park in Atlanta, Georgia,” he said, handing her the bills. “Here’s some cash.” As she continued to stare at him numbly, he added, “You know, for a cab or a bus ticket. Go home.”

Then he turned away from her and, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, started back toward the parking lot where he’d left the Impala. The demon’s words echoed in his ears, louder than the rushing sirens and the woman’s frightened, confused calls from behind him. They’d done it, then. They’d turned Dean. The Dean that Sam had spent the last four months remembering— _his_ Dean—was gone.

No, he berated himself as he slid behind the wheel of the Impala. Not gone. Just misplaced. Sam was going to get his brother back. And if he couldn’t—if they’d changed Dean too much—then he was going to do for his brother what Dean had been strong enough to do for Dad. He was going to save Dean from himself if it was the last thing he did.

Driving away underneath the crimson sky, Sam ran his fingers across the gun he kept taped under the dash and knew that if it came down to that, it would be.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The eclipse, if that was what you wanted to call it, lasted for five hours. From the reports coming in from other points of the globe, it appeared to be a worldwide phenomenon. On the other side of the earth, the moon had gone as blood-dark as the sun. An attempt to control the panicked populace filled the airwaves in the form of repeated admonitions to stay indoors: promises that the government was investigating possible causes.

People called in to talk shows with their own theories, which ranged from some new terrorist weapon to an alien force field surrounding the earth. Some of the callers, of course, managed to come close to the truth.

“… and doesn’t it say in the Good Book, ‘And he opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit’?”

Sam snapped the Impala’s radio off as he pulled into the airport parking lot. He had to beep the horn four times to get the attendant’s attention, and then all the man wanted to talk about was what Sam thought was happening to the sun. Sam said it was probably some kind of atmospheric distortion that would clear up in a few hours at most, and the attendant quickly nodded his head in agreement.

“Sure, that’s it.” He gave a nervous laugh and then asked if Sam wanted long term or short term parking.

“Two weeks,” Sam said without stopping to consider. If he hadn’t come back for the Impala by then, he never would.

He took his ticket and parked. Ran his hands over the Impala from bumper to fender one last time and then left her without looking back.

Inside the airport, all of the flights had been delayed indefinitely. Planes were grounded until further notice. Probably until the FAA had made certain that they weren’t going to explode in midair.

Sam bought a seat on the next available flight to Oregon—whenever it happened to leave—and then settled down on the plastic terminal seats to wait. He carefully chose a seat that put his back to the bank of windows, but he could still see the sky reflected in the windows of the gift store across from him. He closed his eyes against the sight, slouching down in the seat and trying to relax before he gave himself a heart attack.

To his surprise he slept, and was woken up by an announcement over the loud speakers that the flight ban had been lifted and that the airlines were going to do their best to get back on schedule as quickly as possible. When he chanced a glance over his shoulder, Sam saw that night had fallen, but the darkness was clean—untainted by that sullen red glow—and he breathed a little easier.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ann picked him up at the airport, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. When she finally pulled back it was only to reach up and tap his glasses and run her hand through the short strands of his hair.

“Oh, Sam,” she said softly, her eyes crinkling a little with sadness.

Flushing, Sam batted her hand away. “It’ll grow back,” he pointed out.

“Of course it will,” she murmured, turning away to lead him to the car. Sam followed, pulling off the glasses and dropping them in a garbage can as they passed by. It wasn’t as though he needed the disguise anymore.

He folded himself into the Aston Martin’s passenger seat and Ann immediately tossed a .45 into his lap. When he raised an eyebrow at her in question, she shrugged and said, “There’s a lot of strangers back at the house. Most of them are probably there to help, but Bobby said not to trust them. He thinks that some of them showed up to take a shot at you.”

Even after the close calls over the last four months, Sam hadn’t stopped to consider that. “Great,” he groaned, checking the gun over.

“He gave me two names specifically: Gordon Walker and Ellen Harvelle.”

“Ellen?” Sam said, surprised.

“You know her?”

Sam frowned out the window. “She was a friend of my dad’s. They had some kind of falling out. Dean and I ran into her after he died, and she helped us out for a while—set us up with some jobs—but then the whole Azrael thing happened and we sort of lost touch.” He drummed his fingers against his thigh. “Did Bobby say why her in particular?”

Ann shook her head. “I didn’t ask. What about Gordon Walker? Do you know him?”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I’ll point him out to you when we get there,” Ann promised.

Sam let a silence fall between them for a few minutes and then asked, “So how many did we get?”

“There’s about fifty back at the house. Bobby said we can count on at least another thirty showing up on the big day. You _do_ know where, right?” she added, glancing at him. “Kansas is a big state.”

“Stull.” Sam said shortly.

“Isn’t that right near—”

“Lawrence. Yeah.” He snorted. The yellow-eyed demon probably found it amusing as hell that Lawrence would be one of the first places Dean destroyed.

Hesitantly, Ann offered, “Sam, I know how much your brother means to you. If you need to tal—”

“So how many of the hunters that showed up are actually here to fight?” Sam interrupted. He didn’t want to talk about Dean. He couldn’t. “Did Bobby say?”

Ann tried to give him a stern glare and failed miserably because that sort of thing required actually looking at the person for an extended period of time, and she was busy not driving them off the side of the road. “I just want you to know I’m here if you need me.”

Sam clenched his jaw and tilted his body to look out the window. After a minute or so, Ann sighed and said, “Bobby says they’ll all fight. This is too important for them not to.”

“Even the ones that want to kill me?”

“Yes. He thinks some of them might wait until after … whatever happens in Kansas.”

Yeah, it made sense for the hunters to keep Sam around long enough to fight with them in Stull. After that, of course, it’d be open season—assuming any of them survived.

“Okay.” Sam nodded to himself a little. “Good, then.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When they arrived at Ann’s, Bobby had everyone assembled in a large room on the first floor for a meet and greet. He hustled Sam inside and muttered names in his ear as he led him around the room, keeping one hand clasped ostentatiously on a well-oiled semi-automatic hanging in his belt. Sam’s own gun was tucked into the back of his pants and hidden by his jacket.

The whole thing felt surreal. He kept waiting for someone to knife him or pull their gun on him—you didn’t disarm hunters, and Bobby hadn’t even tried—and it kept not happening. Some of the men and women gathered here were hostile, sure, and none of them was actually friendly, but he never felt threatened by anyone.

And then a tall, well-built black man with a thick layer of scar tissue on the side of his neck was stepping in front of them. Sam felt Bobby stiffen next to him before grunting out, “This here’s Gordon Walker, Sam.”

Gordon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His hand was cold and a little dry in Sam’s. “So you’re the great Sam Winchester.” Gordon’s voice wasn’t what Sam had been expecting, given the man’s rough exterior. It was soft and calm: almost effeminate. Faintest hint of a lisp that he couldn’t be sure wasn’t caused by a scar twisting across the man’s lips.

“Well, I don’t know about the great part,” Sam said, trying to sound relaxed while moving his left hand near the gun Ann had given him. Gordon was still holding his right hand, despite the fact that they’d finished the handshake, and it was becoming rapidly uncomfortable. Sam could feel Bobby radiating worry next to him.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Gordon commented. “You and your brother.”

“Sorry I can’t say the same.” Sam debated whether or not to just yank his hand free and then decided that he didn’t really want to start something here if he didn’t have to. So far, the man hadn’t actually done anything except be a little creepy.

“That’s probably because I try to stay below the radar. Don’t make a name for myself going around and killing fellow hunters.”

“Watch your mouth, Gordon,” Bobby snapped.

Sam shook his head, his eyes locked on Gordon and his hand inching closer to the butt of the gun. “No. If there’s something he wants to say, then he might as well go ahead and say it.”

“All right,” Gordon said agreeably. “I think Dean’s a monster that should’ve been put down years ago, and you should’ve been the one to do it.”

And that was it. No one got to pass judgments on his brother, not after everything Dean had gone through. Especially not when they didn’t actually know Dean from Jack shit.

Bobby was telling Gordon to shut his fool mouth up, but Sam wasn’t really paying attention to him anymore. All of his attention was focused on the man standing in front of him as he started to draw his gun. Then a hand, small but rough, closed around his wrist.

“Been a long time, Sam,” Ellen said, slipping up next to him. Her hand tightened as he fought to draw in spite of her, and she dug her fingers into the pressure points in his wrist. Made him release the gun. Sam glared down at her, but she ignored him, smiling politely at Gordon. “You want to give us old friends a minute to catch up, Gordon?”

Gordon’s own smile disappeared and he released Sam’s hand. “Sure thing, Ellen.” His dead eyes flickered back to Sam. “See you around, Sammy.”

“I can’t stand that man,” Bobby muttered as Gordon moved away through the crowd. Then he took Sam’s arm and started to lead him in a different direction, away from both Gordon and Ellen, and Sam pulled himself free.

“What the fuck, Ellen?” he demanded, fighting to keep his voice low.

She frowned at him. “I don’t remember you being this stupid, Sam. Now, I don’t like Gordon any more than Bobby, but we’re gonna need all the manpower we can get, and if you’d drawn that gun, then one of you was getting carted away in a body bag. Maybe both.”

She had a point. Damn it. Still … “Did you hear what he called Dean?”

“I heard,” Ellen said. “But Sam, if you kill every man who thinks we’d be better off if something had been done about Dean before any of this happened, then you’re gonna be down to an army of about three. Including you.”

“And you? Where would you fall in that scenario, Ellen?” Sam demanded, his throat dry. Bobby was still and careful again behind him, and Sam knew without looking that the man was a hair away from drawing.

One corner of Ellen’s mouth lifted in a smile. “I’m just being honest here, Sam.” She looked past him at Bobby and added, “You can take your hand off your peashooter, Singer. I ain’t gonna start anything here.”

Not, ‘she wasn’t going to start anything’, but ‘she wasn’t going to start anything here’. The two statements were miles apart. And Sam realized that she hadn’t really answered his question.

His heart pounded painfully as Ellen nodded to him. “You watch your back, Sam. We’re gonna need you breathing when the time comes.”

Then she was moving away, and Sam started to relax. He glanced back at Bobby. “Well, that went we—”

“Down!” Bobby shouted, and his hand on Sam’s shoulder drove him to the floor. The deafening sound of gunfire broke out above him, but everything was over by the time Sam had fought his way back to his feet.

Sam and Bobby were standing at the edge of a wide ring of men and women. The hunters were all holding smoking guns, and staring at the two bodies that lay in the center of the empty space. Sam’s would-be assassins had been shot so many times that he couldn’t even tell if they had been men or women.

A harsh bray of laughter dragged his attention to the far wall, where Gordon was leaning with an easy-going smile on his face. His own gun hadn’t left its holster.

“Looks like they missed,” he observed.

Sam watched the man stroll out of the room and then craned his head around, looking for Ellen. He found her standing by the window, watching him with an unreadable expression on her face.

She hadn’t drawn her gun either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's curious, the stuff that the demon in the park was reciting comes from the Gospel of Judas.


	7. Chapter 7

“You’re not coming,” Sam said again. They were in the second floor library, which had apparently been turned into an armory over the past four months. Around them, the few remaining hunters that Bobby had gathered were doing their final check before heading down to Kansas. Ann’s jet could only carry ten of them at a time, so the move had been a long, drawn-out process. Ellen and Gordon had both taken earlier flights, at least, which left Sam a whole hell of a lot calmer. Or it had until this little problem had come up.

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” Ann replied frostily, checking her Berretta.

“I’m serious, Ann!” Sam snapped. He was raising his voice, and some of the hunters were watching them surreptitiously now, but he didn’t really care. “This isn’t a game.”

“I didn’t think it was.” She was way too calm for this conversation.

“I’m in charge, and I say you’re not coming,” he insisted.

“It’s my jet, and I say I am.”

Sam stared at her, working through the warning in her tone. “Was that supposed to be a _threat_?” he asked finally.

“Just stating the facts, Sam.” Ann put the gun down on the table and picked up a knife, trying to look as though she knew what she was doing. She tested the sharpness of it and promptly cut her finger, and yeah, that was pretty much the last straw.

Sam grabbed Ann’s wrist, finding the same pressure points Ellen had used on him a few days ago. The knife fell out of her nerveless hand and thunked down onto the table. Before Ann could do more than gasp, Sam had ducked down and scooped her up. She struggled as he tossed her over his shoulder, trying to slide out of his grip, and he ignored her. Ann was good with a gun, but she knew shit about hand-to-hand grappling, and he had over a hundred pounds on her besides.

“Damn it, Sam! Put me down!” she shouted, punching his back. He was going to have some pretty spectacular bruises later, but he could live with that.

The hunters stared openly as Sam strode out of the room, carrying Ann with him. He started in the direction of her bedroom and almost immediately turned himself around again. There was only one room in the house he was going to be able to lock her inside without a key: the vault. And luckily, he just happened to know the combination.

“You can’t do this! I have a right to go!”

“I’m not going to waste my time worrying about you,” he said as he continued down the hall.

“What, so you’re going to make me stay here and worry about _you_ instead?” She sounded like she was crying and Sam winced.

“You worrying about me won’t get anyone killed. Me worrying about you might.” He turned the corner to head down the stairs and ran into Fredericks. Oops.

“Fredericks!” Ann called, twisting. “Make him let me go! Make him—”

Fredericks was reaching inside his jacket, and when he pulled his gun Sam was going to have to put Ann down no matter how bad an idea it was. But the man only drew out a ring of keys and held them up. “Will you be needing one of these, sir?” he asked.

“Damn it, Fredericks! You help me or I swear to God I will shoot you!”

“I am helping, ma’am,” Fredericks answered, and then looked at Sam expectantly.

“I was gonna put her in the vault,” Sam admitted.

“You are _not_! I’m coming, I’m—”

“Perhaps one of the studies might be more comfortable. There’s one just down the hall. I don’t believe it has any windows.”

Ann managed to knee Sam in the chest and he grunted, struggling for breath. “Stop it,” he growled, giving her a little shake, and then, to Fredericks: “Yeah, anything that’s close.”

He followed Fredericks to the room, Ann screaming at him to put her down the entire way. Fredericks held the door open while Sam tossed her through, and then Sam held the door shut while Fredericks locked it.

Ann was pounding on the other side within seconds. “Sam, you asshole! This is my choice! You can’t do this, damn it!”

“I’m sorry, Ann, but you’re not trained for this. You’d be a liability out there, and if you stop to think about it, you’ll know I’m right.”

There was silence on the other side of the door for a moment, and then Ann’s voice, softly: “I can’t sit here while you run off and commit suicide.”

Sam dropped his head against the door, letting his breath out in a short exhale, and Fredericks shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll just get back to what I was doing,” the man announced, and then hurried off down the hallway, leaving them alone.

“Sam?” Ann called shakily.

“It’s not suicide,” he said. “I think we can stop this.”

“Don’t lie to me! Don’t you dare.” She sounded angry and more than a little hurt. “You think I don’t remember what you said to me? You said we were screwed! You said we didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, you said—”

“I changed my mind, okay?” Sam shot back, and felt like a complete idiot for having this conversation with her through the door. Maybe he should go in there for a few minutes and—oh, right: Fredericks had taken the keys with him. He sighed. “Look, Ann, I do have a plan here. And it’s—I think it’s a good one.”

“Sam, please. Don’t make me do this. Let me come. I’ll stay back, I promise. I’ll just watch, okay?”

“No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “If they get past us—”

“If they get past you what kind of difference is it going to make? What the hell does it matter whether I die there or here?”

The realization that she was right hit Sam like a blow to the gut. He’d known, objectively, that if this didn’t work then everyone would die. But it was different, hearing it laid out like that.

“I don’t want to die alone,” Ann continued, and the thought of her having to do that—of Ann having to die at all—made Sam’s chest clench.

He pressed his eyes shut. “You won’t be alone. Fredericks will still be here, and Laura, and—”

“That’s not what I—what I—God, why the hell do you have to be such an idiot?”

“What?” Sam said, startled. Had she just called him an idiot?

“I want—Sam, I want to be with you if this—if we—” Her words trailed off, but Sam could hear her muffled sobs through the door.

Oh hell. Sam _was_ an idiot. He was Ann’s best friend—probably the closest thing she had to family since her mother had died. Of course she wanted to be with him when— _if_ , damn it—things went bad.

Decision made, he rubbed moodily at his forehead with one hand. “Fredericks isn’t going to give me the key, is he?”

Ann was silent for a moment and then, faintly, she whispered, “What?” The undisguised hope in her voice was painful.

“Fredericks isn’t going to give me the key,” Sam repeated, louder. “I’ll go see if anyone has a lock pick on them.” He paused and then added, “But you’re staying with Missouri, you hear me? That’s—it should be far enough away to be safe.”

“Nowhere’s far enough away to be safe.” But her voice was calm, and it was more a statement of fact than an argument.

As he hurried back to the library, Sam wished he could disagree.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“That’s enough for now.”

Dean stepped back from the sobbing shape, wiping the blade clean on his sweatpants. The yellow-eyed demon, wearing Sam’s shape like usual, stepped up next to him and drew a finger across his cheek. It came away red and dripping.

“It’s almost time,” the demon said, slipping the finger into its mouth and sucking it clean. When it was finished, it removed its finger with an obscene pop. “Excited for the big day?”

Dean considered the question. He didn’t quite understand what the demon was asking, although he remembered a time when he would have been able to answer easily. But Foras and the yellow-eyed demon had been chipping away at him for what felt like years now: moving things around and closing off a different piece whenever it suited them.

Dean’s emotions had gone a few days ago, when they’d found him sobbing in a corner of his room. They hadn’t bothered asking what was wrong before doing it, not that it would have mattered. He hadn’t been all that sure why he was crying in the first place.

“Dean?” the demon prodded. “I asked you a question.”

“I don’t understand what you want to know,” Dean admitted.

“Hmm.” The demon turned to Foras. “Maybe we went a bit too far: he was more creative before. Let’s try unlocking a few things. I want him perfect when we go through tomorrow.”

Foras, lounging in a chair by the far wall, fiddled with the metal band around his wrist. “You’re the boss.”

“Give him back hatred and lust. Desire. Pleasure.” It tilted its head, considering, and then added, “And anger. He was always so good at that one.”

Dean’s chest tightened as he felt places inside of him opening up again and his vision fogged with red. Bastards were messing around in his head: they’d screwed him up so much he didn’t recognize himself anymore.

Raising the knife, Dean took a snarling step toward the yellow-eyed demon, and it was like running into a solid wall. He strained to move forward: to take those last few steps so he could slice the son of a bitch apart. Stupid fucking deal was holding him back, keeping him from doing what he really wanted. How long before those six months were up, anyway?

“Now that’s more like it!” the demon crowed before glancing coldly in Foras’ direction. “Although, maybe we can refocus that a little? One more day and you would have been scraping my insides off the walls.”

Foras shrugged. “Oops.”

There was that familiar feeling of things in his head being shifted around and Dean eased up his grip on the blade. His enemies weren’t here. They were waiting on the other side of the gate. The angels had pushed and maneuvered him into this. Had tricked him. They were going to get what was coming to them.

“I don’t suppose I have to remind you that if I’m destroyed,” the demon was commenting, “ _You’d_ be sent back to the pit I found you in?”

Foras hunched deeper in his seat, sullen. “I _said_ it was an accident. He’s fixed now.”

The yellow-eyed demon turned back to Dean and ran its hand across his shoulders. His wings gave a slight shudder at the disturbance. “One more time, Dean: are you exited about tomorrow?”

“Ecstatic.”

“Very amusing, but let’s try it again without the sarcasm.”

“You want me to kill the feathery fucks who did this to me? Fine. I’m ready. Are we done here?”

“Not just yet. We’re going to be meeting some would-be heroes when we emerge. Sam will be there.”

Something twitched deep inside of Dean, almost too faint to be perceptible. He shrugged carelessly. “And?”

“You may have to kill him.”

That twitch again, stronger this time. Dean frowned. “Why?”

“Because he’s going to try to kill you.”

Ah. That made sense. “Okay.”

“Is it?” The demon was watching him keenly, which was a little confusing. Dean didn’t really get what the big deal was.

“Are you deaf or just really fucking stupid?”

“I like to think of it as being cautious.” The demon’s eyes flickered and the mess Dean had made out of this last damned soul was replaced by a naked man, kneeling and weighted down with chains. Shaggy hair and sad brown eyes. Broad nose. Lanky but heavily muscled. A mirror image of Sam right down to the scar curling across his left hip.

“Go ahead. Let’s see how you do with this.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Whatever. He hefted the knife and stepped forward. “So fucking stupid,” he muttered, and swung the blade down and up, disemboweling the man.

“What’s stupid, Dean?” the demon asked. It strolled over to stand next to him while the man on the floor screamed and tried to hold himself together.

Dean shrugged and made another cut along the man’s back. He considered the smooth skin there. God, this was boring. He hummed as inspiration hit and he shoved the man down on the floor, kneeling over him and starting to carve the Metallica logo in the center of his back. His canvas jerked and Dean used his left hand to hold its face against the floor.

“What’s stupid?” the yellow-eyed demon repeated, and a distracting tug of pain ran into Dean through the collar.

“You are,” he answered. “You’re obviously worried about this whole Sam thing for some reason, so this—” He drove the knife through the man’s throat hard enough that the tip dug into the floor and then sat back. “—is supposed to be some kind of test or something, right?”

The demon’s face was blank when he looked up at it. “Or something,” it confirmed.

“So you’re stupid. Actually, you’re kind of a moron.” Dean jerked the knife free and the man didn’t move. Oops. He’d gone and killed him before he got further than _Meta_. Oh well. The angels would be more interesting. Angels were harder to kill; they healed themselves without Dean having to do the work for them.

“Even tamed, you’re fucking annoying,” the demon grunted, kicking him off the body. Its eyes burned into his skin. “Make him answer, Foras. Full, complete answers: no more of this cryptic shit.”

Pain shocked through Dean, bowing his back and making his wings snap wide. He bit back on a scream. Turned it into a snarl instead. He was panting as heat poured off his body.

“Kneel and answer,” Foras ordered, and Dean climbed to his knees obediently, facing the yellow-eyed demon. He bowed his head, eyes on the floor so that the bastards wouldn’t see the hate there.

“It’s not him,” he ground out, muscles still twitching as Foras sent punishing slices through him. “It looks like him, but it isn’t. I might as well be carving up a dog. Or you, since you seem to like that shape so much.” He glanced up through his bangs.

The pain cut off as the demon cupped his chin. It drew his head up, rubbing its thumb across his jaw. “There, was that so difficult?” it murmured, and then tightened its grip, making Dean wince. “Next time I ask you a question, I want it answered immediately. Is that understood?”

“Fine,” Dean said, pulling his head away.

Still staring down at him dispassionately, the demon called, “Let’s try that again. Oh, and Foras? This time, make him believe it.”

The body on the floor pushed itself up to its knees, healthy and whole. Dean felt that fumbling in his head again and suddenly his breath was coming faster. Sam. They had Sam. He wasn’t sure why that mattered.

The demon shoved the knife back into Dean’s hand. “Go ahead.”

Dean glanced down at the knife and then over at his brother. He didn’t move. That was _Sam_ kneeling over there, watching Dean with something like fear in his eyes. It shouldn’t have made him uncomfortable, but it did.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” the demon snarled, and this time it was pissed off enough to punish him directly. Sent its power snaking inside of him to crush his heart. His lungs.

Dean coughed out blood and pushed himself to his feet. Felt the demon pull its power back as soon as he was standing. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his insides knit back together.

Fucker wanted him to slice Sam up so much, then fine.

Dean took the two steps needed to reach his brother’s side and swung the knife down, meaning to duplicate his former cut and pour Sam’s insides on the floor. But for some reason, he stopped with the knife barely dimpling his brother’s skin.

“You said it wasn’t a problem,” the demon murmured.

Dean shifted his weight. “It’s not,” he said shortly.

“Why are you hesitating, then?”

Why was he? He looked down into Sam’s soft green eyes, and tried to press the knife in. After a few moments, he gave up and stepped back. Watched a single drop of blood slip down from where he’d held the knife against his brother’s stomach.

“Dean …” The demon’s voice was low: threatening. The pain was going to start again in a minute.

Dean clenched his jaw and moved in again. Wrapped his hand in that stupid, long hair and pulled Sam’s head back. Set the blade against his neck. It would be a quick, clean kill. The sensation of Sam trembling against the blade made him freeze. He could keep himself from backing off again, but he couldn’t actually make himself do it, either.

“What’s the problem?” the demon demanded.

“It feels …” Dean trailed off, not sure how to finish that. Wrong? Bad? They were words that didn’t hold any meaning for him any more.

“Feels _what_ , Dean?” the demon snapped, and he could sense that it was rapidly losing its patience with him, which was never good.

He wanted to answer and couldn’t, which meant more punishment. Dean moved the knife off of his brother’s neck and stepped back. He didn’t want to accidentally cut Sam when the pain ripped through him. When it was safe, he glanced at the demon and said, “I don’t know. I can’t.”

He expected to be torn apart at his refusal, but the demon only sighed. “That’s all right, Dean. It’s not as much fun, but we can do this another way.”

“You want me to fix the problem?” Foras asked from the chair, sounding only marginally interested.

“Do it. We can put his memories back when Sammy’s been contained.” The demon grinned. “It’s no fun if he doesn’t remember.”

That feel of Foras shifting things around inside him came again, more intrusive this time. Dean shook his head a little to clear it.

“All right, Dean.” The demon circled closer so that it could kick the kneeling man over onto his side. “Do you know who this is?”

“Samuel Winchester,” Dean answered, and he wasn’t sure how he knew that name. After all, he’d never met the man before. “He’s a hunter.”

“I want you to kill him for me.”

Dean rolled his shoulders, limbering up his muscles, and moved in while the kid stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.

“And Dean?"

He paused, glancing over at the yellow-eyed demon. For some reason it was wearing the hunter's shape. The smile it offered him was lazy and wide.

"Take your time.”

Somewhere deep inside of him, a part of Dean cringed. But it was distant, at the end of a long tunnel, and it was easy enough to ignore. Dean nodded and went to work.


	8. Chapter 8

It was inevitable that they would attract the attention of local law enforcement. Ninety-four people making their way to a cemetery in the middle of the night wasn’t exactly an inconspicuous event. Especially when that cemetery was the infamous Stull. After arguing the problem over with Bobby, Sam decided that there was no point in worrying about it: by the time enough officers showed up to try anything, the police would be the least of their problems.

So for once the tremors of unease and nervousness running through Sam as he jumped the low gate surrounding the cemetery had nothing to do with mundane repercussions. Gordon and Ellen had a little to do with it: they’d both been shadowing him since the hunters had rendezvoused to go over the plan one last time and make any necessary adjustments. Mostly, though, he was scared shitless that none of this was going to work. That he wouldn’t be able to stop Dean.

It hadn’t been difficult to guess where in the cemetery the demons were planning on coming through: the church had been a supernatural hotspot long before it had been torn down, and a desecrated holy place was just too tempting for that yellow-eyed bastard to resist. Sam led the way up the low hill, and although he was expecting signs of activity, his stomach still fluttered uneasily as the beam of his flashlight picked up curls of steam rising from the rubble.

The hunters came up around him, forming a lose ring around the church, and stared at it. Sam realized that the night was absolutely still, with not even a hint of wind. And although the sky had been clear when they entered the cemetery, as he glanced up now he saw that there were no stars: no sign of the moon, full and bright only minutes before. Sam stared at the steam pouring up from burnt and crumbling stone and thought that he could practically hear the dead shifting uneasily in their graves around him.

One of the stones in the rubble shifted for no apparent reason and Sam shook himself. “Okay,” he called. “This is it. Everyone fan out.”

Bobby stepped up next to him as the hunters started to move away from the church ruins. “You ready?” he asked.

Sam offered him a weak smile. “I’m going to have to be.”

“Yeah, you are.” Bobby hesitated, and then added, “John’d be proud of you, Sam. Dean too. Despite everything, you boys—”

“Not the best time, Bobby,” Sam interrupted. “You can tell me after.”

Bobby shifted his grip on his machete and snorted. “Hell, boy, you know as well as I do that … ” He trailed off at Sam’s look and then sighed. “Yeah, fine. After.”

Reaching over to give Sam’s shoulder a quick squeeze, he nodded meaningfully across the smoking ruins where Sam could still make out Gordon and Ellen as they moved into position. “Watch your back out there.”

“You too.” Sam backed away from the ruined church and crouched behind one of the large trees. Leaning around the side of the trunk, he watched the stones steam. His stomach lurched as the ground beneath the church began to boil. The unnatural _wrongness_ of it beat against his skin like a chill wind: earth shouldn’t move like water, stones shouldn’t tumble against each other like driftwood churned by ocean waves.

Sam forced his eyes away from the sight and checked his watch. 11:58. Okay, he could do this. This was going to work. It was—

“Hands in the air where I can see them,” a voice said loudly from behind him.

Sam resisted the urge to groan. He’d been so engrossed by what was happening to the ruins that he hadn’t noticed the cop arrive. Fucking great timing. He held his hands up and slowly rose to his feet.

“Shit, you’re a big fella, aren’t you?”

“Officer,” Sam tried, “You need to get out of here. In less than two minutes, there’s—” He swallowed his initial, truthful explanation, and went for something more mundane and believable. “—a bomb’s going to go off and blow this entire place to pieces.”

“You shitting me?”

“No, sir.” Sam indicated the bubbling ground carefully with a slight twist of his hand. “Chemical reaction’s already starting.”

“Oh fuck,” the cop moaned, and dropped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get—”

Sam spun around and punched the man square on the nose. Heard something snap as the cop’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed on the ground. Sam dropped next to the man and felt for a pulse. Found one steady and even, and breathed a small sigh of relief as he cast his eyes around the cemetery, making sure that the man had been alone.

“Sorry, buddy,” he muttered, patting the unconscious man’s cheek. A sudden, horrible groaning from the direction of the church made Sam jump. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the ground open up and swallow the smoking rubble.

The empty space left behind was black and terribly cold. Sam had seen darkness like that before: had seen it in the form of wings sprouting from his brother's back. It had been difficult to look at then, and now there was so much more of it. About a twenty-foot square area filled with the stuff, but it looked endless. Looked like some infinitely deep pool of insanity. Then the darkness erupted from the ground, fountaining up to form a high arch, like a gateway.

Fire exploded out from the arch, lighting the night and melting whatever it touched. Sam heard several brief screams that cut off instantly and slammed his fist against the tree trunk. The demons hadn’t even started coming through yet and they were already down some badly needed men.

Sam had been expecting them to send Dean through first, so he was taken by surprise when something crawled through the gate. It was difficult for his mind to actually grasp what he was looking at, which left him with the vague impression of something red and leech-like. The thing left pieces of itself behind as it advanced: rotten flesh sloughing off and polluting the earth.

More of the same followed, setting up a guard around the gate, and then something else was coming through: a troop of tall man-shapes the color of burnt flesh. Reek of charred sulfur in the air.

Finally, in quick succession: something black and smiling with yellow eyes, something with red hair that looked like a man but wasn’t, and Dean.

God, Dean.

He looked almost exactly like he had in Sam’s vision. The collar, the wings, the dispassionate, golden eyes. Despite the cold, he was only wearing a pair of black jeans. Bare feet on frozen ground. His hair was too long—was longer than Sam’s now, and how fucked up was that? No blood or ash smeared across his skin, but Sam supposed that, if his plan didn’t work, that would be remedied soon enough.

He forced his eyes away from his brother and scanned the thing standing next to Dean: that thing that looked like a man and subtly wasn’t. It was similar enough in form to the man it had possessed in San Francisco and Boston for Sam to recognize Foras. And it was wearing a metal band on its wrist. A metal band that was a twin to the seamless collar around Dean’s neck.

Sam slid a hand up to his ear and pressed the com button. “It’s the redhead, Bobby,” he said quickly. “You have to either kill it or get that bracelet off its wrist somehow.”

“Roger that,” Bobby’s voice came back, and then Sam heard him give the high, piercing whistle that was the signal to attack.

From all sides of the gate, hunters spilled from hiding, firing rounds that had been blessed and dipped in holy water. The low, red demons screamed and curled in on themselves, but the burnt men just shrugged the bullets off. At the yellow-eyed demon’s barked command, they charged forward and slammed into the approaching hunters. Sam heard men and women yelling—heard them dying—but all of his attention was on the trio that remained by the gate.

The yellow-eyed demon wasn’t paying any attention to the battle either, its eyes on Dean as it spoke. Foras nodded in reply, and brushed its fingers against the metal band on its opposite wrist.

Dean’s shoulders twitched and then he was moving forward. Was walking purposefully, eyes scanning the graveyard for something. He strode past clumps of hunters as he searched and left corpses behind where his wings brushed their skin.

Sam’s fingers curled tightly into the tree’s bark. He was supposed to stay hidden—stay safe—until Bobby had done his job, but he couldn’t sit there and watch Dean slaughter the people he’d brought here. He couldn’t sit by and watch his brother be this … thing … the demon had created.

Sam stepped around the tree, took a deep breath, and yelled, “Dean!”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean stepped through the gateway and he could feel them instantly. Tiny flares of life surrounding him. He counted and came up with ninety-two people. Flexing his wings, he looked further—looked for angels—and couldn’t find any. Pity.

“Think of this as a trial run,” the yellow-eyed demon said. For some reason it looked different out here: black and flowing from one form to another. Same wide smile, though. Same eyes. Foras, Dean saw as he glanced over, hadn’t really changed at all, except that he actually looked interested in what was going on for once.

The people—hunters, Dean remembered—emerged at the sound of a sharp whistle and the air was full of bullets. Dean felt some pass through him and directed a trickle of power to repair the damage. It was child’s play compared to some of the things he’d had to fix in these past few months.

“Typical,” the yellow-eyed demon murmured. And then, louder, “Go ahead and enjoy yourselves.” Dean watched as the burnt men obediently started forward: the imp leeches were too weak to stand up under the hail of bullets and flopped in place, mewling in pain.

“I think it’s time to let our hound do a little hunting,” the yellow-eyed demon mused, turning its attention to Dean. “I want you to go find Samuel Winchester. Bring him to me—you can hurt him if he resists, but don’t kill him yet. I want to talk with him first.”

“What about them?” Dean asked, scanning the hunters who were now busy trying to bring down the burnt men by the sheer weight of their numbers. Idiots. There were thousands on the other side of the gate waiting for the order to advance and these hunters wasted their strength—pathetic as that might be—on the advance scouts. _Dad would have tanned their hides_ , he thought distantly.

“Kill whatever gets in your way, but don’t get distracted. I want Sammy taken care of first.”

Foras twisted that metal band of his and Dean’s anger rushed up, hot and ready. He moved forward, scanning for the human the yellow-eyed demon wanted. Looking for that flopping, shaggy hair and that tall, broad frame. He absently brushed his wings against the hunters as he searched. Felt their hearts stop at the sudden pulse of power that thundered through them, which was a quicker death than the idiots deserved.

“Dean!” someone called, and he glanced over and saw a tall man standing in the shadow of a tree. The shape was right, but the hair was all wrong—too short. He peered at the face and that matched the image in his head as well. This was the one, then, short hair or no, and he was just as stupid as the rest of them. Fucking morons.

Dean altered his path and made his way over to the man, who just stood there with this strange look on his face and watched him come.

“Dean,” Samuel said again when he was closer.

“Samuel Winchester,” Dean grunted in return.

“Dean, you have to fight it. You have to try, okay?”

Dude was either drunk or high, talking like they knew each other. Dean reached out to wrap a hand around the man’s arm and Samuel pulled back. Annoyed, Dean sent out a slap of power that knocked him back into the tree.

Samuel sagged down onto the ground, his eyes wide and shocked. Dean peered down at him and noticed that there was a large dent in the back of the man’s head. Saw red leaking out: jagged shards of white bone stuck in Samuel’s hair. Dean had hit too hard. Oops.

He knelt quickly and brushed his hand over the wound, repairing the damage. Yellow-eyed bastard had said alive, and he’d be pissed at Dean if he accidentally let this Samuel Winchester die.

Of course, as soon as the man was healed, he was fighting again, kicking up at Dean and swearing and—was he crying? Already? Dean had barely touched him.

Whatever. He was so done with this. Rolling his eyes, Dean wrapped Samuel with power. Pulled him to his feet and then up off the ground, so that he wouldn’t have anything to push back against.

“Dean, please!” Samuel begged. “This isn’t you. This isn’t—”

“Dude, shut up,” Dean muttered, scowling. “And stop talking like I’m supposed to know you.”

Samuel stopped fighting suddenly. “Dean?” He swallowed. “Dean, it’s me, Sam.”

Dean snorted as he started back toward the yellow-eyed demon. “Yeah, we covered that part.” He floated Samuel along behind him easily, burning anything that got in their way. No one had said that he had to leave the demons alone, after all, and they screamed as pretty as anything else.

Back at the gate, Dean dropped Samuel in front of the yellow-eyed demon. “Found him,” he announced.

“I want him kneeling in front of me,” the demon said, smirking.

“Whatever floats your boat,” Dean muttered. He shifted the flows of power and forced the man to his knees. Guy was still looking at him for some reason.

Feeling uncomfortable underneath the scrutiny, Dean let his attention slip out over the battle. Or, well, the humans probably thought it was a battle. He could tell that the burnt men were playing with the hunters, though: taking their time.

And damn, if the whole invasion thing was going to be this boring, then he might as well just sleep through it. Especially if he wasn’t going to be allowed to have any fun. Where were those angels he’d been promised, anyway?

Then, from out of nowhere, there was a scream and Foras’ restraining hold evaporated. Dean grinned, wings spreading. Oh, _hell_ yeah. Maybe there weren’t any angels here, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun.

Let the fires begin.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam was numb when Dean dropped him on the ground in front of the yellow-eyed son of a bitch who had ruined everything. Dean had almost killed him. Dean had thrown him against the tree and Sam had been dying: his head had been broken. And then Dean had knelt down next to him and healed him, and Sam had actually let himself hope that his brother was still alive in there somewhere, but then …

 _‘Dude, shut up. And stop talking like I’m supposed to know you.’_

They’d made him forget. Dean knew who Sam was—knew his name, at least—but he obviously didn’t remember that Sam was his brother anymore. And for some reason, that realization had hurt more than seeing what else the bastards had made his brother into.

“I want him kneeling in front of me,” the yellow-eyed demon purred.

And Dean just … just didn’t care. He wasn’t even really looking at Sam. “Whatever floats your boat,” he said, and then Sam was being jerked up onto his knees and held there and God, how stupid had he been to think this was going to work? Dean didn’t remember him, and the link was still dead, or blocked, or broken, because Sam couldn’t sense his brother at all.

He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of Dean. If he was going to die, it was going to be with his brother’s face in front of him. It wasn’t going to be looking at the yellow-eyed bastard’s real form and struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.

“Like what I’ve done with him? I do.”

Sam stared at Dean while Dean looked out over the battle, an expression of utter boredom on his face, and didn’t answer.

“They’re all going to die, Sammy. And you? You’re going to be my reward to your brother for a job well done. Oh, I know. He doesn’t remember you right now. We’ll fix that once we have you settled in, don’t wor—”

There was a rush of movement from Sam’s right and he glanced over in time to see Bobby charging in with a machete held firmly in both hands. Foras saw him coming as well and didn’t even move. Just stood there with this superior little smile on its face.

Sam’s breath caught. It didn’t see Bobby or the machete as a danger. Arrogant, overconfident son of a bitch.

Foras stood there thinking it was invincible right up to the moment when Bobby brought the machete—blessed by a priest, a rabbi, a mullah, and an entire temple of Buddhist monks, just to be safe—down on its arm just above the elbow. The blade sliced clean through its flesh and Foras’ lower arm fell down onto the ground. It howled in rage and pain.

Yes. God, yes.

Sam felt the bonds that were holding him immobile disappear and there were more screams behind him. The roar of flames and the smell of flesh burning as Dean lit fires in the night. Sam ignored everything else and scrambled forward, closing his hand around Foras’ severed arm and slipping the metal band off of it and onto his own wrist.

Suddenly, he could feel Dean—what Dean had become—through the bracelet. Okay, fine, but that wasn’t what Sam wanted: wasn’t what he needed. He closed his eyes, trying to pull himself together enough to concentrate.

“I don’t think so,” the yellow-eyed demon snarled, and Sam found himself lifted again. Felt the demon’s power slipping inside his chest and ripping. It was shredding him to pieces inside, trying to kill him before he did anything, and it was going to manage it. It was going to—

Bobby swung the machete up again, through the vague shape of the yellow-eyed demon, and it scattered.

Sam collapsed back to the ground, panting and fighting to stay conscious. He could hear Bobby yelling at him: hear Bobby swearing at him to hurry the fuck up and do something, damn it, and it was all distant. Unimportant.

 _I’m dying,_ Sam thought. And then, on the heels of that, _No, not yet._

He inched his hand up and found Dean’s amulet around his neck. Tightening his grip on it, he shoved his mind inward, down into that hole where Dean had been. He was in the tunnel again: in the dark. He started to panic and then Missouri’s voice was there, soft and calming.

 _‘You’re gonna feel lost, Sam, but you just think of your brother. You think of everything you’re gonna spend these next few months remembering and you hold onto that.’_

Sam scrambled for that nebulous _something_ that he’d classified as _Dean_ over the past four months. Noogies in the backseat; sticky sweetness of shared, stolen chocolate; Dean’s hands working out the charley-horses in his hamstrings; Dean letting him win at Candyland every time; Dean teaching him to play cards, to shoot a gun; Dean calming him down after a nightmare; Dean patching up his knees after he tripped during PT and scraped them all to hell; Dean driving the Impala; Dean punching him in the face. Dean always there, just one step ahead. Dean clearing the path, protecting Sam, keeping him safe. Dean Dean _Dean Dean_ **Dean**.

And as it popped into place, Sam found himself rushing down the tunnel. He fell into his brother through the link between them and wanted to scream and weep at the same time. Everything was wrong, like a familiar house that has had almost all of its furnishings removed and few remaining pieces fixed to the ceiling and walls instead of the floor. Sam looked for something recognizable and couldn’t find anything. There was only a pulsing anger, and a need to hurt things, and hate, and power flooding through everything and tying it together.

 _What the hell did they do to you, Dean?_

He sensed Dean turning his attention inward. Dean noticing that Sam was there. Dean readying himself to strike: to defend himself.

 **Dean, don’t!** Sam thought. **It’s me: it’s Sam.** And at the same time he pushed, shoving all of his memories up at Dean, flooding him.

 **Sammy,** Dean thought, and Sam heard a thousand memories in that one word. Felt Dean’s mind reordering itself around him in a rush. But it wasn’t enough—it was too late—because the power Dean had gathered had to go _somewhere_.

Sam found himself thrust back into his own dying body, and Dean’s power was burning down that link after him. It seared his insides, started to boil his blood, and then Dean was there. Dean had followed the power through the link and he was grabbing it, redirecting it, and Sam felt his body pulling itself together around him as Dean healed him for the second time.

Sam gasped in a breath of air and it felt so good it almost hurt. He opened his eyes and Bobby was down on the ground next to him, bleeding from more places that Sam could count. Foras was standing over him the man, its face twisted in fury. The yellow-eyed demon hung above everything, condensing back together in a black cloud.

Then none of that mattered because Dean was there, kneeling next to Sam. His eyes were still that alien gold, and those deadly, black wings still rolled out from his back, but the expression on his brother’s face told Sam everything he needed to know.

This was his Dean, not the demon’s.

 _Son of a bitch,_ Sam thought dazedly. _It actually worked._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean knelt next to Sam and did his best to ignore everything else jumbling for his attention. God, the things he’d done. And he’d just burned people—hunters—friends of his. He could still smell them, smell burnt flesh and ash, and he’d almost killed Sam twice, for fuck’s sake, but he couldn’t think about it right now. He had to focus.

“Sammy,” he said quickly, “You okay?” He patted down his brother’s chest and stomach, looking for any wounds he might have missed.

“Dean,” Sam coughed. And then, inside, Dean heard his brother’s voice again: **Dean, I’m okay.**

Relief flooded Dean at that, but on the heels of relief came realization. Came the memory of what Sam had done: what Sam felt about him. Sam had tried to kill him, and he was here to finish the job.

Dean jerked his hands away from Sam— _don’t touch, unclean, he hates me, wants to kill me fine let him but I can’t look, can’t touch_ —and Sam grabbed after him. His face twisted and he whispered, “Dean, _don’t_. It wasn’t—”

Then Sam shut his mouth, lips firming into a thin line, and shoved everything he was feeling—everything he’d been through—down the link. Why he’d left Bobby’s, and the vision the demon had shown him ( _God,_ that’s _why_ ), and four months of Sam driving the Impala everywhere and almost getting killed because he was too stubborn to leave the car behind. And threaded through it all was a steady, almost violent pulse of _NeedYouJerkLoveYouDeanStupidAssBrother_.

Which was maybe worse because Sam shouldn’t feel that way, damn it! Not after everything Dean had done. Sam _should_ hate him. Should be disgusted by him. Sam should destroy him before he did any more damage.

A flicker of black caught Dean’s eye and pulled him out of his thoughts. It was the demon. The yellow-eyed son of a bitch who had turned him into this … this _thing_ … and the fucker was getting ready to kill Sam when Dean was distracted. Well, fuck that. Fuck all this shit, for that matter.

Dean let the rage surge up and fuel the power inside of him. Then he reached out, looking for the demons. Found Foras and the burnt men and the few surviving leech imps. Found the yellow-eyed bastard. He looked up into its eyes. Let it see what was coming in the smile he gave it.

“No,” it started, and for once it actually sounded frightened. “Dean—”

“Six months was up ten minutes ago, you son of a bitch,” Dean snarled, and shoved.

Fire exploded all around him and the earth cracked at his feet. He did his best to shield the remaining hunters from the blast and wasn’t sure how well he managed. He did know that the demons went up in flames. Felt them turn to ash in his head: felt the demon, the bastard that had haunted Dean’s family all his life, crumble into nothing and blow away on the hot wind.

He realized he was swearing: was whispering, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” over and over. It wasn’t enough. The paltry few demons he’d just destroyed weren’t enough. He needed more. He sensed Sam grabbing at his arm, heard his brother trying to say something, and ignored him.

Dean needed more, and he knew exactly where he could get it.

He pushed himself to his feet and turned to face the gate. There were demons on the other side, lined up to come through. Waiting for a command that wasn’t going to come now that Dean had killed their general. He drew more power out of himself and pushed it through the gate. Felt death spread out on the other side like a plague.

It still wasn’t enough—nothing would ever be enough—but he was swaying on his feet now, and he still had to destroy the gate. Dean pulled back on his strike and redirected the energy. He watched as the gate crumbled in on itself, sinking back into the ground and disappearing. Shoved the rest of his power after it, sealing it shut.

“Don’t fuck with Dean Winchester,” he mumbled, and then fell over.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam wasn’t quite quick enough to catch his brother as he fell. He reached him a second later, though, and pulled Dean into his lap, Dean’s back lying across his legs. The wings had vanished with the gate, almost as though they’d been extinguished. When Dean blinked up at Sam, his eyes were clear and green and Sam was so fucking relieved he could have kissed him. Settled for dropping their foreheads together instead.

“Dean,” he breathed.

“Such a girl,” Dean muttered, but Sam didn’t smile at the old joke. He could feel Dean loud and clear with the link open so wide and nothing coming between them anymore. He could feel his brother’s anger rapidly succumbing to despair, and pain, and self-hatred. Dean was drowning in it.

“Don’t,” Sam said hoarsely.

Dean reached up and tugged on his short hair. “You cut your hair,” he said, and it was so unexpected and trivial and stupid that Sam barked out a laugh.

“Someone said I looked like a diseased llama.”

“Only once and I was drunk at the time,” Dean returned, and he sounded fine, but underneath his thoughts were black, and cold, and Sam could taste death through the link.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he said. “We won. Dean, we _won_.”

“Go us,” Dean muttered, his eyes slipping shut. And then, inside, Sam heard his brother say, **You have to let me go.**

Sam didn’t hesitate. **No,** he thought back.

 **Sam, I’m tired. And I’m too—I’m too dangerous** _(I don’t deserve)_ **to keep around** _(to live)_.

 **No,** Sam snapped, responding to that deeper belief Dean obviously hadn’t meant to share. **It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault, Dean.** He shoved his conviction in that fact into his brother and the corner of Dean’s mouth quirked up.

And maybe Dean couldn’t say the words—hell, maybe he was physically incapable of it—but he could think them.

 **Love you too, Sammy.** First time the bastard had ever said it to him, and it sounded like goodbye.

“You stupid fuck,” Sam gasped. “No, you don’t get to give up on me. Not now. We can work through this. We worked through it before, we can—”

Dean opened his eyes and they were gold again. Sam could sense something building inside his brother. Felt heat pulse against his legs where his brother’s shoulders were resting. God only knew how much power Dean had just spent doing what he’d done, and it was already building again.

 **This isn’t going away, Sammy. Now get off me.**

“No.” Sam hauled Dean up, pressing his brother’s back against his chest and holding on tightly. “Screw you. You go, I go, remember? If you’re gonna burn, then—”

 **No, Sam.** Dean struggled to move away, pulling against Sam’s grip, and finally resorted to shoving Sam off of him with a gentle burst of power. Sam tumbled away and fell against Bobby, who immediately grabbed hold of him and held him still. Sam tried to push the man off and couldn’t coordinate his limbs well enough.

“Dean! Let go, Bobby, I have to get to him. Dean, don’t! Don’t you fucking dare!”

Dean shuddered as those black wings erupted from his back again, dribbling smoke. He kept his eyes on Sam as he knelt on the ground, and a sad smile quirked up one side of his mouth.

 **Hey, Sammy, take care of my car or I swear to God I will haunt your ass.**

“Dean!” Sam shouted, and a fireball exploded where his brother was, the heat searing Sam’s skin and scorching the earth in a wide circle. Inside of him, the link went cold and still, and then the fire winked out of existence. “ _Dean_!”

Bobby finally let him go and Sam half-ran, half-crawled to the center of that circle, where the earth was still smoking. He burnt his hands on the ground and jerked them back. Stared at the pile of dust just out of reach and tried to breathe around the painful lump in his throat.

Dean. Oh God, _Dean_.

He could hear Bobby shouting instructions to the surviving hunters. Could hear someone swearing loudly as their wounds were roughly bound. Hear someone else praying over one of their dead.

“Too bad about your brother, Sammy.”

Gordon. Standing behind him. Sam blinked as he felt something press against the back of his head. Knew it was a gun and couldn’t seem to give a shit. He felt empty inside, and that hollow place where the link had been ached like an infected sore.

“I’ve been waiting for this.” Gordon cocked the gun. “And now that we don’t need you anymore …” He chuckled softly. “Too bad I didn’t have the chance to take care of both of you.”

Sam flinched at the sound of the shot, but there wasn’t any pain. Wasn’t darkness or peace. There was only Gordon’s body hitting the ground next to him, blood pooling out from the gaping hole in his head and steaming as it came in contact with the burning earth.

Sam lifted his eyes and Ellen was standing across from him, her feet just brushing the outer ring of the burn. She was bleeding from a cut over one eye, and her left arm hung awkwardly. For a few moments, she regarded him soberly, and then she lowered her gun and slid it back into her holster.

“I never liked Gordon,” she said, and nodded at Sam. “I’m sorry about Dean. If you ever need a place to stay, you know where to find me.” Then she turned around without another word and walked away.

Sam dropped his eyes to the ground where his brother should have been, where the wind had erased all but the faintest traces of ash, and wished that Ellen had just let Gordon shoot him. He realized that he wasn’t crying and wondered what was wrong with him. His brother was—Dean was—and he couldn’t even manage a single fucking tear.

“Sam, we’ve got to go.” Bobby’s voice. And yeah, probably Bobby’s hand on his shoulder, trying to draw him away.

Sam jerked free of the man’s grip. He wasn’t leaving Dean. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“We don’t have time for this, Sam,” Bobby insisted.

 _Dean,_ Sam thought, and didn’t move. He could hear the wail of approaching sirens in the distance.

“Bobby, we have to move.”

“I _know_ , Ellen, just—damn it, Sam, get up!”

Sam shook the man’s hand off again and Bobby swore. Then there was a fist swinging down toward his face—Bobby’s fist—and it slammed into his cheek and everything went dark.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam was kneeling in Stull Cemetery next to the circle of burnt earth where his brother had died. It was obviously mid-day, but the light had a strange, blue quality to it, as though he was underwater. The angel he’d seen with Dean at Ann’s, the one from his vision—Seraphiel—was standing at the center of the burn, a look of sorrow and compassion on its perfect face.

Sam stared up at it and tried to feel anything but empty.

“Samuel Winchester.”

Swallowing, Sam said, “I want him back. Bring him back. Now.”

“I cannot.”

“You mean you won’t.” Sam climbed to his feet, his jaw clenched. “Where the fuck were you before, huh? Where were you when we needed help?”

It only dropped its eyes, wings shifting awkwardly, and Sam’s stomach turned over as the realization hit him.

“You _knew_ ,” he breathed. “You knew all the time what the demon was planning. You knew and you—you _used_ Dean. You set him up. You bastard! You’re no better than they are!” Sam shoved the thing back, hard, and Seraphiel let him.

“It became necessary to sacrifice one for the good of—”

“That’s crap,” Sam snapped, and had to curl his hands into fists to keep from punching the thing’s earnest, gentle face. “There was another way.”

“There was not,” Seraphiel corrected softly. “We have never had the ability to permanently close a gate before, and likely will not again. Dean was an unexpected opportun—”

“He was my _brother_!” And just like that, all his anger abandonned him, unlocking his knees and sinking him back down to the ground. “He was the only thing I had left.”

“You have friends,” Seraphiel urged. Its wing curved forward and brushed against Sam’s arm in a gentle caress. “You are loved.”

“I don’t care. I want—I want him back. I want—oh, you goddamned bastards.” He dropped forward onto his hands, fisting them in the dead earth. “I should have let him kill you all.”

“You are grieving. Angry. I have come bearing the Lord God’s gratitude for—”

“Fuck off.” Sam wanted to cry and still couldn’t manage it because he hurt so fucking much he felt numb.

“Samuel—”

“I swear to God if you don’t leave me alone right now, I will personally spend the rest of my life looking for ways to kill you assholes.” He wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t anyway. They deserved it, for what they’d done to Dean. For what they’d taken away from him.

After a moment, Seraphiel said, hesitantly, “I am not … permitted … to do certain things. There are laws I must—by Holy Writ it is—there is a certain time for—to heal a soul so badly damaged requires—but perhaps I may …” It trailed off and then Sam sensed it kneel beside him. Felt its arms wrap around him: its wings drape over them both in a warm cocoon of safety and peace.

“Know what is in front of your face,” it murmured into his ear. “And what is hidden from you will be disclosed to you. For there is nothing hidden that will not be revealed. And there is nothing buried that will not be raised.” The words tumbled over each other in his head, imprinting themselves on his brain.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sam asked. His throat was dry: tight.

“I can say no more. When the time has come, you will understand.” It pressed a kiss to his temple, and Sam could feel its lips curve into a smile. “Be at peace and find what you seek, Samuel Winchester.”

Then the angel was gone and the world melted away around Sam with the sound of wings and a sensation of being drowned in light.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When he opened his eyes, Sam was lying in Missouri’s upstairs guest room. His head ached and both of his palms were covered with thick bandages. Ann was curled up against him, her head resting on his chest. She must have sensed the change in his breathing because she immediately lifted her head and met his weary gaze.

“Sam,” she whispered, reaching up and brushing her hand against the unbruised side of his face. “Sam, I’m so sorry.”

Sam felt something break inside of him and he let out a sob, turning into her. Ann pulled him closer and held him while the tears finally came. She murmured comforting words into his hair, and rocked him slowly, and the only thing Sam could think was that she didn’t smell like Dean.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They wouldn’t let him near any weapons. Hell, Missouri watched him like a hawk when he was holding anything as dangerous as a butter knife. Sam would have told them not to bother, if he’d had the energy. He was too tired to go through the effort of killing himself. Too worn out to do much more than sit and stare out the window, one hand wrapped around Dean’s amulet.

Outside, winter blanketed the word with frost. The trees were skeletal: they looked like burnt-out husks, as though they had burned with his brother. The leaden, overcast skies and icy wind had lodged in Sam’s chest like a stone.

Ann stayed with them. She spent most of her time sitting with Sam, not pushing, not trying to get him to talk, just waiting for him to need her. When the warmth of her presence started to become too painful for Sam to bear, she seemed to sense it. Left him alone to cry and swear at Dean for leaving him alone like this.

Sometimes, Sam snuck out on his own and hitched a ride to Stull, where he wandered up to the place the church had been. He sat down next to the barren patch of earth where his brother had died: the place where nothing would grow, even after spring had settled firmly on the land and the groundskeeper had seeded the soil with fresh seed. He sat there and stared at the ground until Ann or Missouri figured out that he was missing and came to get him.

At night, when he could manage a few hours of sleep, Sam dreamed of his brother. He dreamed Dean dying over and over on some kind of perpetual loop. Dreamed the horror that the last six and a half years of Dean’s life had been, and wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if Dad had just let him go after that car crash.

Some nights he dreamed of Dean smirking. Dean picking up trashy women in bars and getting drunk off of tequila and cheap beer. Dean playing pranks and goofing around and making stupid fart jokes and shoveling food in his mouth like the pig he was and when he woke up from those dreams, Sam’s chest hurt so much he thought he was having a heart attack.

Waking up and having forgotten was the worst, though. Waking up and looking around and expecting to see a rundown motel. Expecting to see Dean sprawled out and snoring one bed over. When Sam realized where he was, and what had happened, that loss slammed into him all over again, leaving him lightheaded and gasping for breath.

After six months of feeling like he’d died with Dean, Sam woke up with Ann sitting cross-legged in a chair next to his bed, watching him.

“This isn’t helping, Sam,” she said, reaching out and soothing down his hair. “You’re too close. You need some distance. Come home with me.”

And because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, Sam said okay.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ann’s wasn’t much different. Sam felt like a ghost, wandering through the rooms and remembering the frantic research he’d done here on two separate occasions to save his brother. _You win some, you lose some,_ he thought.

Sometimes you lost everything.

When he felt like the walls were closing in on him and the air was going stale, he let himself out and aimlessly strolled the grounds. High summer surrounded him, pushing into early autumn, and everything was so warm and alive that it made Sam’s chest clench with guilt.

He should be under the ground: should have kept his promise to his brother. And maybe he had in a way, because there was a part of him that had been left behind last winter. A part of him that had blown away on the wind with Dean’s ashes.

Sometimes, Sam felt himself drifting closer to that memory. Felt himself so close to the divide between the living and the dead that he thought he could sense Dean walking with him. And when Dean slipped away again, as he always did, Sam went into the garage and crawled into the Impala and curled up in the backseat. He breathed in deeply, smelling his childhood—smelling Dean—and slept.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Almost a year after Dean died, the dreams changed. It was always the same dream now, night after night. Sam was somewhere bright: somewhere blinding and hot. He was standing in a vegetable garden on the top of a cliff that fell away into the sea. Somewhere behind him was the high, sweet sound of bells, but Sam never turned around to look because all of his attention was focused on the man standing at the edge of the cliff.

He was wearing baggy cotton pants and sandals, and the bare skin of his back was darker than Sam had ever seen it: a kind of shining bronze color that was too perfect to be real. His hair was long, bleached by the sunlight. Sam approached with the honeyed slowness of dreams, and his brother turned to meet him.

Dean’s nose was a little burnt, his freckles vivid against his skin. There was sweat rolling down from one of his temples: beading across his forehead. He smiled when he saw Sam, green eyes sparkling and skin crinkling in around the corners.

“Sammy,” Dean said, and that was when always when Sam woke up, with the scent of the sea caught in his mouth and the sound of bells and birds in his ears.

After, he lay in bed with that Dean-shaped hole aching inside of him, and stared at the ceiling. His limbs were languid, his breathing slow and peaceful. He imagined he could feel Dean standing in the room with him, just waiting for Sam to sit up and turn on the light.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“I’ll call you when … I’ll call you, okay?” Sam dropped his bag into the Impala’s backseat and jogged around to the driver’s side.

“I don’t understand, Sam,” Ann said, following him. “I mean, I’m glad you want to do something, but I just don’t know if a road trip is such a good idea right now. You haven’t been … yourself.”

He’d been dead, more like. He’d been dead and now he was starting to feel alive again. And maybe— _oh God, please_ —maybe something more. Something that felt suspiciously like hope. Two months of that dream and he was finally doing something about it.

“I’ll be fine, Ann. Promise.” Sam dropped a kiss on her cheek and climbed into the car.

“At least tell me where you’re going,” Ann pleaded, leaning in the window.

Sam flipped on the radio and the mellow sound of James Taylor filtered through the speakers. _‘Americano got the sleepy eye … but his body’s still shaking like a live wire … sleepy senorita with the eyes on fire … ’_ Dean would have had a fit, polluting his baby with soft pop, but Sam smiled a little. The song was a good omen.

“Mexico,” he said, fishing his sunglasses out of the glove compartment. “I’m going to Mexico.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam didn’t let himself think about what he was doing. He drove south while the sun was up and then pulled over and slept curled in the backseat. He dreamed the ocean dream as usual, but this time when he woke up, he thought he heard a voice whispering half-familiar words in his ear.

 _‘Know what is in front of your face, and what is hidden from you will be disclosed to you. For there is nothing hidden that will not be revealed. And there is nothing buried that will not be raised.’_

The hollow place inside him pulsed, urging him on, and he found that he couldn’t go back to sleep. So he slid back behind the wheel and drove while the sun came up. As tawny fire spread across the sky, that frayed, empty end of the link was still chanting within him.

 _South. Go South._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On the other side of the border, Sam bought a guidebook for Baja California Sur and spent an hour pouring over it before turning in for the night. He read through the names of the cities and towns along the coast until he found what he was looking for in a little town at the very tip of the peninsula.

 _‘Be at peace and find what you seek, Samuel Winchester.’_

For the first time, Sam allowed himself to hope. He tore out the appropriate page, circled the small church symbol in red ink and taped the map to the dashboard so that he could look over at his destination as he drove.

San Judas in La Paz, Baja California Sur.

San Judas, and it didn’t matter whether Sam saw that as a sign for Judas or Jude, because either one would have applied.

 _‘When the time has come, you will understand.’_

Sam thought that maybe he was beginning to.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He drove the Impala up the winding, narrow dirt road, following the directions he’d gotten back in the town proper, and burst out laughing when he finally reached his destination. Nervous laughter, sure, but the first actual laugh he’d managed in over a year. He was laughing now because he understood the strange looks he’d gotten when he asked for directions to San Judas.

“A nunnery,” he muttered, dropping his head against the steering wheel. “Figures.”

“ _Vaya ahora!_ ” a heavyset older woman shouted, making shooing motions at him. “ _Ningunos hombres permitidos!_ ”

Sam climbed out of the car and did his best to look harmless, although he had the feeling that he wasn’t pulling it off very well. “Uh, _¿estoy buscando a mi hermano?_ ” he tried, slouching a little. “Dean Winchester? _¿Está él aquí?_ ”

“ _No._ ” The nun said shortly, waving her hands again. On the slope above, Sam could see a small, white church, and behind that what had to be the convent.

“Please— _por favor. Él tiene que estar aquí. ¿Puede usted preguntar si cualquier persona lo ha visto?_ ”

“ _Ningunos hombres permitidos,_ ” the nun repeated, but she looked less certain this time.

Encouraged, Sam fumbled with his wallet and pulled out a creased photo. It was almost eight years out of date, but it was the most recent one he had. Dean didn’t do pictures.

“ _Este es mi hermano. ¿Lo ha visto usted?_ ”

The woman frowned at the picture for a moment, squinting, and then her face cleared. She handed it back. “ _Sammi_ ,” she said.

Sam almost choked on his heart. “Yes. Yes, I’m Sam. Where is he? God, uh, _¿dónde está?_ ”

“ _Allí: en el jardín._ ” The woman pointed up the slope. Sam grabbed her and planted a kiss on her cheek before dodging her scolding slaps and sprinting at full speed up the hill. Nuns leaped out of his way as he passed, shouting for Dean at the top of his lungs. In the church, the bell began to ring for service and it sounded exactly the way it had in his dream.

Sam ran past the building, his shirt sticking to his back from the sweat pouring off of him. His lungs were on fire, and maybe running in the mid-day heat at the beginning of summer in southern Baja California wasn’t the brightest idea because his head was spinning when he finally rounded a high stone wall and found himself in the middle of his dream.

There was the vegetable garden, every dusty leaf in place. There was the cliff edge, and the ocean spreading out beyond it. And straightening from the hoeing he’d been doing along a row of corn, bare from the waist up and swiping a forearm across his brow, was Dean.

Suddenly, Sam didn’t feel quite so worn out.

“Dean!” he shouted.

Dean jumped, looking up as Sam ran at him with a look of alarm on his face. Sam crashed into his brother and pulled him into a bear hug. Alive. Warm skin underneath Sam’s hands. It was impossible. He was dreaming again—had to be—but he’d never gotten close enough to touch in his dream. And if it was a dream, then he wouldn’t be uncomfortably hot and damp. His eyes wouldn’t be stinging from the sweat running into them.

Sam was sobbing and laughing at the same time. Was pounding his brother on the back and babbling through it all, “Oh my God, Dean, I thought you were dead! I thought you were gone, man, you were—why the fuck didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you come find me? You fucking asshole! Oh, God, Dean, I missed you, you son of a bitch. You … you …”

It came to Sam slowly that Dean wasn’t hugging him back. “Dean?” Sam said softly, edging back a little.

“Sammy,” Dean said, but it didn’t sound like a greeting. It sounded lost and more than a little confused.

Sam pulled back further, not quite willing to let Dean go, and looked him in the eyes. Same too green eyes. Same pattern of freckles over the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, although more pronounced now than Sam had ever seen them before—the sun, of course. But there wasn’t any recognition in that familiar face. Only uncertainty and the beginnings of an awkward smile.

God, this _was_ Dean, wasn’t it? After all, it looked like Dean, and it sounded like Dean. But when Sam dropped his eyes to the man’s chest, looking for scars, the skin there was unblemished. Smooth and unmarked.

“Sammy,” the man who looked like Dean said again, and his smile was warmer now. He leaned in and gave Sam a brief hug and then slid out of Sam’s numb arms and picked up his hoe again. And went back to poking at the corn, humming _Whole Lotta Love_ under his breath.

Holy fuck.

Sam gradually became aware of someone calling him, and when he glanced over his shoulder a young nun was picking her way toward him. “You can not be here,” she said. “Men are not permitted.”

Sam blinked at her. “You speak English,” he said.

“I went to university in the United States,” she said softly. “Please, you must leave.”

“But I—that’s my brother—” _I think. God, it has to be._

Her face lit up. “Sammy is your brother?” she said.

“Yes—I mean no. _I’m_ Sam. His name’s Dean.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, and Sam wished she’d fucking explain it to him, then, because Dean was supposed to be dead, not hidden away in a Mexican convent at the ass-end of Baja California. “You must have been very worried. We have taken good care of him.”

“You have—wait a minute, if men aren’t allowed here, what’s Dean doing with you?”

“Prioress received a special dispensation. Because of his disability. Also, we fished him out of the sea—over a year ago, now, it must have been.” She smiled at Dean fondly. “He is a gift from God.”

Sam’s head was starting to hurt. “Out of the—” he started, and then jumped tracks as a more serious question occurred to him. “Disability?”

The nun ducked her eyes a little. “I am sorry if I offended. We all like Sam—Dean—very much. He is a sweet man.”

Okay, maybe it _wasn’t_ Dean. Because no one had ever used that adjective to describe Dean, even when he was just a kid. “I’m sorry, I’m having trouble following. When you say disability, you mean … what exactly?”

After a long pause in which she was obviously searching for the right word, the nun finally said, “He is … simple.”

And that finally tracked. “Dean is _not_ retarded,” Sam growled.

Except that Dean was sort of acting that way, wasn’t he? Like the lights were on but no one was home. Sam glanced over at his brother again. Dean was grinning, wide and open, and completely ignoring Sam. He’d stopped humming Zeppelin, and now he was muttering to himself under his breath, the same word over and over again, like it was the only one he was capable of forming: Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.

Sam’s chest constricted. “I think I need to sit down,” he said, and crouched down right there in the middle of the garden, hanging his head between his legs.


	10. Chapter 10

It wasn’t too difficult arranging for Dean to come away with him. Sam had Dean’s picture in his wallet, after all, and that counted for a lot, even if Dean didn’t seem to recognize him. Dean didn’t recognize the Impala, either, but he seemed excited by the car, walking around it in circles and running his hand across its smooth lines.

“Sammy,” he said, glancing over at Sam.

“Yeah, Dean, I took good care of it.” Sam opened the passenger door and Dean climbed in and lounged back in the seat. He glanced up at Sam out the open window, and for a few, breath-stealing moments, Sam thought that nothing had changed: that Dean was going to scowl up at him and tell him to get his ass in gear.

Then Dean grinned, wide and empty, and the expectation passed.

Sam turned the radio on as he started back north, pushing in one of Dean’s tapes in case it might jar something loose. Dean straightened at the first chords of Ride the Lightning, and then bobbed his head in time with the beat. He even sang along with some of it, hitting every note perfectly. But the only word he ever sang was Sam’s name.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam got them a motel room that night, and cut his brother’s hair in the bathroom. Dean endured it patiently, and then stared at himself in the mirror as though trying to figure out just who, exactly, he was looking at. Sam sat down on the toilet, leaning forward on his knees, and closed his eyes.

He probed at his end of the link, feeling around the edges of the aching hole. Dean was less than two feet away from him—Sam could hear his brother playing with the faucets—but it still felt like he was gone.

But Sam had brought Dean back this way once before, so maybe … maybe if he tried it again, he could …

Sam slipped into the link and was immediately surrounded by a vast, empty space. The tunnel was gone. There was nothing here but darkness and cold. There was nothing to distinguish one direction from another, except for the rapidly fading trail back into his own body.

Backpedaling, Sam opened his eyes to find Dean’s worried face inches from his. Sam was shaking, and his lungs hurt, and his skin felt like ice. He gasped in a breath and Dean frowned, hands coming out to steady him.

“Sammy,” Dean said, and as soon as he understood that Sam wasn’t dying on him, he got up and wandered out into the bedroom to watch the people walking by out the window.

After that, Sam left the link alone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Oh my God.”

Ann’s face was ashen as she stared at Dean, who was climbing out of the passenger side and looking around with wide-eyed interest. He looked like his old self again, with his hair cut and the home-sewn clothes the nuns had given him traded in for jeans and a t-shirt. With his amulet was back around his neck where it belonged.

Sam got out on his side, smiling slightly. He’d phoned Ann early this morning and told her that he and Dean would be back sometime late that afternoon. He had been able to hear the disbelief and worry in her voice: the certainty that he’d completely lost it. And really, until this moment, he hadn’t been absolutely positive that it hadn’t all been in his mind.

But Ann was here, staring at Dean, who was busy watching two squirrels run across the drive, and it was real.

“Sam told me, Dean, but I didn’t actually believe it. What happened? How …” She trailed off as Dean continued to ignore her and looked over at Sam. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I couldn’t tell you over the phone, but he’s … God, Ann, I don’t know.” Sam started crying, and he wasn’t sure whether it was relief at having found Dean again or grief at having an empty shell instead of his brother. Having Dean back this way was like unwrapping a present on Christmas morning and finding the box empty.

“Sammy?” Dean said, and he sounded a little agitated, the way he always did when Sam started to lose it like this.

Sam wiped his eyes and tried to smile at his brother. “It’s okay, Dean,” he said hoarsely. Then Ann’s arms were around him and he rested his chin on her head, pulling in slow, calming breaths. Dean edged around the Impala to stand next to him and rubbed Sam’s back with one hand.

“Sammy,” Dean said, and he sounded so much like he always had, concerned and murmuring Sam’s name. Demanding to know what was wrong.

But it wasn’t the same, and the taste in Sam’s mouth was bitter.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean followed Sam around like a shadow. He was friendly enough with Ann and her staff, but Sam was the one he came to when he accidentally cut his hand on a piece of glass. It was Sam to whom he showed the frog he caught out back by the pool. Sam whom he sat and watched for hours on end with a small smile on his face.

For his part, Sam tried to remind Dean of who he was. He told his brother stories from their childhood until his voice had been reduced to a hoarse whisper. He showed Dean the few photographs he possessed of their life together. He even tried spreading out their weapons on the long kitchen table one day, thinking that if nothing else was going to jar his brother’s memory, maybe that would.

Dean absently picked up one of the guns, turning it over in his hands, and then took it apart with his usual neat, precise movements. He put all the pieces down on the table and grinned at Sam.

“Sammy!” he announced.

“Yeah, Dean, that’s real good,” Sam said softly, and he sat down across from his brother and watched Dean fit the pieces back together again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Three months after he brought Dean back to Ann’s, a violent thunderstorm swept through in the middle of the night. Sam woke up when Dean shoved his way into Sam’s bed, shivering and curling up against him.

“Sammy!” Dean babbled, his eyes wide and frightened. “Sammy Sammy!”

Sam hugged his brother against him, trying not to feel awkward about the whole situation and making soothing noises into his brother’s hair. “Shh, Dean. It’s all right: it’s just thunder. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

But Dean wouldn’t settle down until the storm had passed, and even then he refused to go back to his own bed across the room. Sam gave in and let Dean stay. He let Dean rest his head on the pillow next to Sam’s and hug him close like some kind of life-sized teddy bear.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered as he dropped down into sleep again. Sam winced and swallowed around the painful lump in his throat.

 _I can’t do this,_ he thought. _He’s not getting any better and I can’t be this for him._ He lay in bed, watching his brother sleep and turning over his options in his head. But in the end there was really only one thing he could do.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam didn’t tell Ann what he was planning. She was only going to say it was a bad idea and try to talk him out of it. He did call Missouri. Asked her for pointers and told her what he’d like done with his body if things went wrong. Made arrangements for Dean to be taken care of. Missouri sighed and promised that she’d pray for them both. Sam choked down the bitter laugh that wanted to come out and thanked her instead before hanging up.

He waited until late afternoon, when everyone in the house was busy and Dean had worn himself out climbing around Ann’s trees like some kind of hairless monkey. Then he brought his brother inside to the room they’d been sharing and got him to lie down on the bed. Dean blinked up at Sam in confusion—it wasn’t dark out yet, which meant it wasn’t time to sleep—and then scooted back when Sam climbed in the bed with him.

Sam caught his brother’s wrist and held him still. “Wait. Don’t move, Dean. It’s okay.”

He lay down next to Dean and leaned their foreheads together. Could feel his breath mingling with Dean’s: could have counted every lime green fleck in his brother’s eyes if he’d wanted to. It was horribly intimate, and it made Sam more than a little uncomfortable, but Missouri had told him that physical closeness would help.

Sam put his hand on his brother’s neck and let out a slow breath. Dean snorted in amusement and copied Sam, his own breath dramatically loud. Sam’s lips twitched up in a soft smile as he slipped down inside himself. He paused at the edge of the gaping hole for a moment, gathering his strength, and then hurled himself into the link.

Cold again. Ice that burned like fire. Vast emptiness. Darkness.

Sam moved forward into the abyss and didn’t know if he was moving in the right direction. Didn’t know if anything was there to find. He could feel himself beginning to unravel in the void.

 _Dean,_ he thought desperately. _Dean, where are you?_

Impossibly faint, Sam thought he sensed a reply. He turned in that direction and shoved forward.

 _Dean!_ he called.

Again that faint acknowledgement, and he thought that he could see something now. Some kind of soft glow.

Sam hurried towards it, feeling himself weaken: feeling something like exhaustion come over him. Knew that somewhere on the other side of forever, his heart was slowing to a stop, his skin going cold. He shoved the knowledge out of his mind and moved into the light.

It was Stull. Stull in the sunlight with charred, black places on the grass. Dean was standing by the barren circle he had left, staring down at the black earth with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Dean!” Sam shouted, tripping over himself in his rush to get to his brother.

Dean turned, slow as molasses, and Sam fell into him. Sam’s hands wrapped around Dean’s arms and the world exploded around them. Fiery winds rushed past, trying to rip Sam free, flaking his skin off in clouds of ash.

Sam bit his lip against the pain. Tightened his grip on Dean and refused to let go. White light bled over them both, devouring them, burning them clean. Burning them down to the bone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It took Sam a few seconds to realize that he was back in his own body. Everything hurt as though he’d taken a heavy beating, and his head was pounding. He opened his eyes carefully and found Dean’s face filling his vision. Dean’s eyes fluttered open and he looked back at Sam.

“Sammy?” Dean said, and Sam wanted to cry. He wanted to break everything he could get his hands on. Wanted to hunt down each and every one of those angelic bastards and kill them all. That blue son of a bitch had promised him. It had _promised_ , damn it, and then it had given him back a Dean that was broken, and Sam couldn’t fix him, he couldn’t—

Dean frowned. “What the hell are you doing in my bed, you freak?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean didn’t remember anything past the incubus hunt that had started the whole mess.

For a few minutes, Sam wasn’t sure whether to tell him what had happened or to make something up—there was no chance of just blowing past the whole thing, of course. Even if Dean hadn’t been missing over eight years, there was the whole Sam sobbing all over him thing, despite Dean’s best attempts to shove him off the bed. And then, of course, there was the link, running strong and easy between them.

In the end, it was that last difficulty that made Sam’s decision for him. He could lie all he wanted out loud, but he wasn’t sure he had enough control to keep Dean from catching bits and pieces of what had really happened.

So, the truth.

Dean listened with his head propped on his chin, an expression of disbelief on his face and pulses of annoyance and fear shooting through the link. “Eight _years_? Really?” he kept interrupting. And then muttering, “Fuck, Sammy,” in a really pissy tone of voice.

When Sam got to the whole “you killed the yellow-eyed demon” part, Dean sat up straighter. “Really?” He frowned. “Man, I wish I could remember the look on that son of a bitch’s face.”

There were parts Sam deliberately omitted. What Dean had done to Dad, for one, because he wasn’t sure that this Dean would understand that it had been an act of mercy. And he was more than a little vague about the torture. About the things Dean had been forced to submit to—and the things he’d been forced to do—when Azrael and the demon had their hands on him.

When Sam had finished, Dean shook his head and muttered, “Thirty eight. Damn, I’m old.” Then he stretched and stood up. “So, where does a guy go to get some food around here? I’m starving.”

Sam gaped at him. “That’s it? ‘You’re starving?’”

Dean shrugged. “What do you want me to say, dude? I’m sorry if you want me to sit down and be all emo with you, but it’s not like I remember any of that crap.”

“Dean,” Sam snapped, “I can tell you’re not okay with this. Spiritual link, remember?”

“Fine!” Dean shouted, dropping the easy-going mask. “I’m freaked out, okay? Jesus, Sam, I lost eight years! And you’re telling me I spent that time _killing_ people!”

“Dean, I—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Sammy. So just—just drop it, man. Let’s just forget about it—oh, hey, look at that! I already did.”

“What about when it comes back?” Sam pressed. “What happens when you remember?”

“Who says I will?” Dean shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Can’t we just … move on? I already lost eight years over this, I don’t want to waste any more time moping around about shit I can’t even remember.” The look he gave Sam was open and pleading. “Come on, Sam, just—for once in our lives can we not talk about it?”

Sam wanted to point out that they had spent most of their lives doing just that, but he kept his mouth shut instead. He had Dean back—Dean as he used to be, not broken and inexpertly mended by Sam. Was Sam really going to complain about that? Was he really so masochistic that he wanted to fight it?

“Okay.”

Dean’s smile of relief was quick and wide. “Awesome,” he said, and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Now can I get something to eat? _Please_?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The following weeks were surreal. Dean spent his time lounging around and making friends with everyone he could find. He slept with all three of the women on Ann’s staff and somehow none of them were bothered by having to share him. He helped himself to Ann’s kitchens at all hours of the night, swam in the pool and sunned himself on the lawn. He talked easily with Ann, which was probably the result of Sam having “accidentally” left out the part where Dean had killed her mother. Ann had forgiven Dean years ago, after all, and there was no reason to make things awkward.

Sam followed Dean around, trying to be unobtrusive about it, and Dean responded by pretending not to notice. But Sam always knew the exact moment that Dean realized he was there, because the link would sharpen as his brother’s attention focused on him. They spent a few hours each day working on gaining some control over that, and after about three weeks, Dean finally figured out how to close it down on his end. Which was a welcome relief, because if Sam had to live through one more of his brother’s ‘conquests’, he was going to die of embarrassment.

Sam kept waiting for Dean to demand that they get back on the road—back to hunting—but Dean never did. Whenever Sam brought it up, Dean would shrug and mutter something about thirty-eight not being twenty-eight and he just needed a few more weeks to recuperate. After about two months of that, Sam realized that Dean didn’t actually want to go anywhere.

The memories of what he’d been through might be gone, but there was some part of his brother that still sensed it. Some part of him that was just plain worn out.

Which was fine with Sam, because God knew he was tired enough himself to lie down and sleep for about a hundred years.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“I like her,” Dean announced suddenly.

He and Sam were lounging on the side of the pool on an unseasonably warm day in late October, soaking in the sun. Sam lifted his head and looked over at his brother lazily.

“Who?” he asked, wondering if his hound dog brother had actually fallen for one of the women sharing his bed.

“Ann,” Dean answered, and for some reason Sam’s stomach tightened unpleasantly. He hadn’t considered that Dean might take an interest in Ann. Now that he thought about it, of course, he didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him before. After all, Ann was beautiful, and smart, and they’d already had sex for crying out loud, even if Dean didn’t remember it.

“Oh,” he floundered. “That’s—that’s good.”

Dean was giving him a strange, wry look. Then he suddenly smiled and flopped over on his stomach, resting his head on his arm and closing his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, “I think she’ll be good for you.”

Sam jumped. “What?”

“Don’t be a moron, Sammy,” Dean muttered.

“Dean, we’re not—it’s not like that. We’re just friends.”

“Sure you are, dude.” But Sam could feel his brother’s amusement thrumming down the link.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They were eating dinner in the back kitchen a week later, and Sam was watching Ann out of the corner of his eye. What the hell did Dean know about anything, anyway? He and Ann were friends—good friends, sure, but nothing more. For a while there, when he’d thought the world was about to end, Sam may have felt … something … but then Dean had died and the whole situation had just sort of faded away. It had probably all been his imagination anyway. That or stress. Yeah, it had just been stress, and this was just Dean fucking with him because even if Sam … well, anyway, Ann certainly didn’t feel that way about him.

Sam was so busy not looking at Ann that he didn’t realize anything was wrong with Dean until his brother stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair. Startled, Sam glanced at him.

“Dean?” he said tentatively. He reached for the link automatically before realizing that Dean had blocked it off on his end. Chest tightening, Sam sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

Dean turned around without a word and walked out the back door.

Sam stared after his brother for a moment, not sure what had happened. Then he pushed back his own chair and hurried after him. He got outside just in time to see Dean disappear into the garage. When he poked his own head inside, squinting in the close shadows, Sam found his brother staring down at the Impala as he ran one hand across its trunk.

“Dean?”

“You took good care of her, Sam,” Dean said softly without turning around.

“Dean, what’s going on? You’re not making any sen—”

“I remember, Sam.”

Oh. Oh shit. Sam edged forward, reaching a hand out toward his brother. “Dean, I …” he faltered, not sure what he could say. Not sure there was anything he could say. And then he remembered what Dean had done to himself last time and dove forward to grab his brother's arm.

“Don’t! Dean, please, I just got you back: I can’t lose you again, I can’t—”

“Dude, relax.” Dean gripped Sam’s shoulder in return, and his eyes were serious but he was smiling a little. “I’m not gonna do anything. It was a shock is all.”

“Dean—”

“Yeah, I remember,” he continued, ignoring Sam’s attempt to speak. “But I don’t _remember_ —it’s like something that happened to someone else. More like a movie, you know?”

“If you’re fine then why are you blocking me?” Sam pressed. “Dean, just let me in and we can work through this, we can—” He shut up as Dean dropped his walls and pulled him in.

Sam saw the memories immediately: envisioned them as an ugly, twisted gash running through the center of Dean’s soul. But it was an old wound, long-since scarred over. Dean regretted the things he’d done, and he was a little sickened by what had happened to him, but he wasn’t lying. He was okay with it. Wasn’t going to do anything stupid.

Thank God. Oh thank God. Sam pulled Dean against him in a crushing hug, ignoring Dean’s feeble attempts to push him away. Finally, his brother gave up and stood there passively while Sam clung to him.

When Sam pulled away, Dean’s mouth twisted wryly and he said, “You just used up, like, all of your emo privileges for the next twenty years.”

“Asshole,” Sam muttered.

Dean snorted and shoved his hands in his pockets. “So your girlfriend’s gonna think we’ve killed each other or something by now.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Sam said reflexively.

“Sure she isn’t.” Dean grinned, and then nudged Sam with one shoulder to get him moving toward the door.

“I’m serious, Dean. It’s not like that.”

“So you don’t want to have hot monkey sex with her?”

“Dude!” Sam exclaimed, and it was all strangely normal. Too normal. Something was going to screw it up, something—

 **Everything in its season** , whispered a kind voice in his head, and Sam felt something brush against his cheek. Soft, like feathers.

Dean had paused too, and was looking around with narrowed eyes. “You hear that?” he demanded.

Sam thought, _You did this, didn’t you? You fixed him._ There was no answer, but really, Dean standing in front of him was answer enough, wasn’t it?

After a few seconds of staring at each other in silence, Dean nodded. “Yeah, me neither.”

They walked across the drive, their shoulders lightly brushing together. Sam’s mouth quirked up into a contented smile. At the door to the kitchen, Dean pulled up short with an agonized groan and Sam looked at him in alarm.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I was with those nuns for a whole year, and I didn’t do anything! _Nuns_ , Sam: do you even _know_ how kinky they are?”

Sam rolled his eyes and smacked Dean on the back of the head on principle before heading back inside. Ann was sitting on the edge of her seat, too still and obviously nervous. She relaxed slightly as Dean came in behind Sam, but there were still lines of tension around her eyes.

“Is everything okay?” she asked hesitantly.

“No,” Dean muttered. “I totally missed out on my chance to have an orgy with a bunch of hot Mexican nuns.”

Ann blinked at him, face twitching as though she wanted to laugh and wasn’t sure she was supposed to. Sam dropped into his seat and reached over to run his fingers lightly over the back of her hand. He watched her flush at the touch and felt his pulse speed. Maybe Dean wasn’t completely insane after all.

“Yeah,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”


End file.
